speak low/Neptune’s Fool

speak low
 
 
We could speak poetry,
language languid with eloquence and charm,
evoke meanings far beyond
common conversation’s command.
 
Spin me daring scenes and inspirations.
Call my essence to imbibe shared meditations.
Lean mean serene obscene,
we careen floor, wall, ceiling,
fulgent air of ecstasy’s semantic
play.
 
Speak low, my wondrous love.
Echo within interstice of heart and mind.
Lift magic’s metaphoric blind.
Elicit ribbon binds of pure enchantment
only poetry can conjure.
 
 
 
 
Neptune’s Fool
 
 
I burst my bubble daily
just to feel the pain.
I paint my face up gaily,
and melt out in the rain.
My bag of tricks is magic.
Yet no one calls to buy.
I wish my life were tragic,
horrendously awry.
‘Twould explain my sad refrain:
so bravely strong, heroic,
a saint, stately and stoic.
When truth be told I’m just a bum,
the very lowest common sum
of higher expectations.
So, let’s elbow up and drown in rum,
libertine libations
(congratulations obviously optional).
It’s not that I’m exceptional
(what a wrench that was to say),
but that the conventional
I label reprehensible.
Freudian snake crawls a cross,
a highly wired state.
Too late to deny reliance
on random strangers’ kindness,
I issue this groveling plea:
Feed my sustaining fantasy.
See my poetry, and shout out:  “How profound!”
.
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