Pink round
You shall know how,
To find the pink round.
It is there in the valley of the guitars.
Lift up the guitars,
And find the keys.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
And then, when the round is played, I shall join you. It shall go round and round and round and round and round and someone else shall join us and then it shall go round and round and round and in the pink and the round shall be in the pink and the Stacatto sound of it shall echo in the round in the pink round and round and round and round and round.
With a plectrum,
You shall play all the different notes,
Of the pink round.
With your fingers.
Pick out the gentle jelly of me,
Take joy in the chords,
The trembling frets.
Wake up,
Wake up,
And the curve of maple,
The truth inside echoing sound.
Round and round and round in the pink round round round and round again. Another joins us. It is the milk pudding of sharing. It is the soft cinnamon of rumps. Of papery skin, soft to touch. She is here.
Realise your seeds.
Add cream.
Tarts, piping hot.
Toffee-like you play to me,
In the pink round.
Volatile lumps,
Gaps with slice-knives,
Milky mess,
With a spoon of simmer.
I boil over.
.
.
.
speak to the dark angels
To find the pink round.
It is there in the valley of the guitars.
Lift up the guitars,
And find the keys.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
And then, when the round is played, I shall join you. It shall go round and round and round and round and round and someone else shall join us and then it shall go round and round and round and in the pink and the round shall be in the pink and the Stacatto sound of it shall echo in the round in the pink round and round and round and round and round.
With a plectrum,
You shall play all the different notes,
Of the pink round.
With your fingers.
Pick out the gentle jelly of me,
Take joy in the chords,
The trembling frets.
Wake up,
Wake up,
And the curve of maple,
The truth inside echoing sound.
Round and round and round in the pink round round round and round again. Another joins us. It is the milk pudding of sharing. It is the soft cinnamon of rumps. Of papery skin, soft to touch. She is here.
Realise your seeds.
Add cream.
Tarts, piping hot.
Toffee-like you play to me,
In the pink round.
Volatile lumps,
Gaps with slice-knives,
Milky mess,
With a spoon of simmer.
I boil over.
.
.
.
speak to the dark angels
posted by Molly Bloom at Sunday, December 03, 2006
10 Comments:
Remarkable piece this, Molly. So full of love and passion, and it's off-kilter erotic in a lovely way. This kind of thing just pours out of you, I can tell. It comes to you as fast as you can type it into the blog. Am I right, please? It's almost like Beat poetry. It begs to be performed. I can hear the music that I reckon was in your head when you composed this: nothing specific, tune-wise; but your words ride the back of some up and down circuling beast of a tune. You write with imperative and clarity. Wonderful.
typo: *circling*
to quote z doctor : "erotic in a lovely way...It begs to be performed"
A winding story round and round and round eh?
wonderful. simply wonderful. open chords played with a tinkerbell touch. a tinkerbell who comes via anais nin. hot and sweet and spiky.
and of course, coming back to read this fabulous piece again, it is precisely what i meant about you writing erotica, for it is erotica isn't it? this would have so fitted in neatly on my now defunct erotic site.
fits in damn well here too though!!
Nice prose, ES.
thank god she ain't an avenue
Ooooooooh.....*blushing* at all the praise. Thankyou so much. I think I'm going to go and hide under the stairs and have a bit of a weep in secret. And maybe have an Aero. You lot are so nice to me, I don't know what to sayxxxx
you are going to eat an aero ON YOUR OWN?
and not share it with us?
I shall give you one piece each.
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