The Witxch (A Psalm of Eros)


She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves.

My older legs against the wall, for if I tell you speak of all, that magic spell that’s in my side that erupts pleasure makes it nice. What turn I this a gift to you that comes, in sinew, through and through. While lovers gasp in air of last, my spirit takes you shoving fast. This witxch, this witxch that comes through me, that loves to love and sometimes leaves. This treasure in the night or day, spinning your hips, your moisture play, and then on top on down you come, your back in stars, and water sums. Hold me, hold me, upon the bridge between your sighs, while lovers breathe, and change the world where shadows play, into your longing, of foreplay.

Older a plain of running sieves, when we made pleasure in the leaves, when fall, came down, we could not last, joined in our bodies, fuming fast. Groaned on we, took the wind that blows and brings a hurricane to our bow, and shot our soul into the sea, did you not scream do me, do me. Anthology of all sexual past, of arms and breast and paths through past. To come together in the dark, sweet beat of organs, from first spark, that brings you, on me to call out, for tasting nether where passion starts. Where bodies writhe in wayward games, and breath so heavy in their stay. Oh beam of human that will not last join into spirits, free at last, for Eros flies in mind unseen, releases nerves all energy, and cums and cums, and licks away, what word of stillness that moans with play.

Have you sweet woman wished a witxch, that there shy lad, with dark eyes thick. Did you not know when ember flames, and moons cross meadows, high western plains? It is then he turns into rain. And, his hard sex, becomes the prose, that takes you under, as he goes. Beyond all era time of the past, be still the future, while you bed, and then until your stated still, your perspired body, has had its fill. No one will know, the screams you’ve had, in privacy, the night done past. Has this now made you want the spell of witxch’s garden, from the well?

She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves. – 05.12.2015 –
דָּנִיֵּאל

Children of Color (Stillness)


(Stillness)

We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”.

(Stillness)

He prays by the garden and see’s ghost go by, and rarely does he wonder if what he knows is right, and it could be it’s an ego coming from a little child, but careful, careful doubter, it could be he reads your mind. Could it be he knows your secret of the times you hate this life. Of the time you committed blasphemy with your body in the night. So it is nobody calls you different, but this child knows your insides, and even though you lie in words, you can’t meet a human eye. It’s a little bit of faith in craft of neurons that don’t meet, but better faith in something known, than men of cloth are prone to teach. Oh he rises ever higher when he watches angles fly, and he claims he once saw Ezra measure walls that reach the sky. Oh it could be he’s autistic, or it could be he’s not real, may be doubter of this noun and verb, you’re the one, who can’t let your soul with G_D meet.

(Stillness)

Numbers, numbers, choreographed from the start of time to now, geographic petrography, to the stars of breath sublime. Schizophrenic as diagnosis from a man who hates his mom, mental health done by neurotics from a psychopathic bomb. So it comes now from a child who counts in numbers six by odd, data to the ones and zeros, dreams of summer though there not. Is it faith or insanity when he learns to tie his shoes, for the whole world has ignored him, while he reaches for the truth.

(Stillness)

We live now in a world of difference from elitist to the poor, where a leader of a people has an IQ of a decimal .04, and while people watch him with such awe, a child sits, in the dark, turning light switches on in Bangladesh, with a synapse from his core. Know you now these days are numbered, when one and one will not mean two, when apocalyptic waves of chaos will be broken by order new. For these children of the color, those that are now of the age, they will break this social order, bring an end to all disordered rage. Call it faith or insanity, time that has no end, for the world has turned in sorrow, and this G_D will have no more. For it is he sends his brilliant children, special lights to change his song, bring a world that’s hung in darkness know it’s love for which he longs. While a tree sits there in Eden waiting for its final end, a child takes the final bite of knowledge, and turns his thoughts within.

(Stillness)

We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”. (Stillness) – 04.13.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל