Monday, 1 June 2015

Variations On A Dream

By Rory A.A. Hinton



















I am interpreted.
I am shrunk.
I am locked in the trunk
Of the myths I am living.
Condemned historically
To her animastic story.
Tao's Tzu has nothing left to do.
I am the sanest man alive.

This is how she wants it done:
I tell her the demonic details
Of all my nocturnal secrets
While she sits across the end of me.
My honesty is stained by her light.
She feels that I am braver at night.
"I see enough of you to see the truth of you."

I am not written in braille.
She doesn't need to touch me
To know my archetypal trickery.
Tricksters make and break their world.
Mischief and art have a part to play
Time and time again
As I lie with this alien.

Lying in muthur's arms,
The nymphed foot and root
Of this woman's charm
Bracelet dangling loosely
As she carefully writes down
All of the irrational fullness
Of my analytical anguish
That's as old as old can be.

She is my monastic secretary,
Habitually cloaked in Coco Chanel.
A woman like her is not ashamed
To die the death of one thousand
Transfers of her pantomimed lust
In order to gain my trappist trust.

She waits for me,
Beckoning voyeur
Like an ancient altar,
Watching my words
Shifting her torso,
Crossing over just so
Right in her chair
Woman over bored.
Nodding on and on
As if it's all news to her.
Because it almost is:
Variations on a dream.