with deft fingers
some would say,
learned behaviour
Doktor Freud,
you tire not,
and cover miles and miles
of often hairy hide,
seemingly at will
and with the aid
of time,
and thoughts
that reach beyond
convention’s drab,
your digits are,
though I would not condone
the sharing of
this sweet phenomenon,
possessed,
not of a talent
or of the want,
the need and
of an innate lust.
No, these were made,
created by the gods
due to an urgent need
a sense of balance
disarrayed,
and slipping back
into the dark abyss
from whence all evil comes.
You knead,
you stroke and use
the layman’s tools,
you speak of petrissage,
and stand in silence
for the man whose old
and withered hand seems to
betray, the man above,
creator, as he’s known. To wit.
You brush, the smile upon your face
is mischievous, and makes the felon stand
as if it would or could just take,
betray the trust of peasants under God,
the dufflebag stirs quickly and expands,
when Kookaburras sing,
when stories sell like Latvian cheese
mist hangs above the BAR
its pewter edges lean
though missing is the sheen.
I will one day be free of envy and of death,
to share the snow,
shoes ring the swan
and flakes descend,
to land on gentle feet,
white feathers hide
and swim
above the silt
in tepid salt
so deep within.
Your fingers squeeze,
and poke,
a gentle tease
explores the folds
and stays,
drawn into caves
where bats have been
and, long ago,
the tide would come
and sweep the little ones
into the lap of nights,
of carnal bloom
and sibling rights,
she strikes,
a sister’s grace,
a brother’s impish pace,
and growth occurs
as God had laid the rules
when on the promised day
twelve fragile roots
fuse into one
defying bless-ed fools
and hatch as they still pray.