a_little_wisp
07-09-2009, 03:34 PM
story-spinner has eight legs
with each foot in a different world - have you seen him? he is wanted.
- drinks coffee black and bitter some nights,
says "yes” to strangers and gray-eyed goddesses. (born to be weird and wander.)
if you trap him in a walnut shell
he’ll die, like anything else would. (find another medieval cure, please.)
May this muse be of the evening,
and always five senses away.
- sips white sugar-tea on others,
charms unsuspecting little misses eating their way
out of life into dancing la tarantella;
tells lies, but even worse are his truths,
spoken silently in glistening design
to obscure a dripping grin.
he is usually either wasted or washed out -
at least until sunrise.
hell, nor any other realm
under star or over sea,
can keep him out-
all worlds are fair game, and that means your pantry too.
pain shooting up his wrists
while his wily fingers fly;
his eyes are many -
the better to watch you writhe, my dear –
and black, and hungry. (always very hungry.)
in his thin limbs he feels the tremor of the world around him,
the grim vibrations of the muted octave minor;
he marks the most hushed of broken whispers
Because they’re broken,
Not because they’re whispers.
And he " listens",
And he weaves.
I wandered into his webbing
and asked him if he cared to share a tale over a bite and a sip.
“don’t mind if I do!”
replied sly story-spinner,
and wrapping me in his 800-silken-thread count sheets,
he indulged in me –
and I, in him.
(those trembling fibers hold all of our passions and dreams.)
though trapped so tight in his weft I could only shiver,
he felt the pulse of Story in my blood,
saw the web before he saw the weaver -
catching dreams and holding fast -
and so sunk into me his venom
by which a thousand more stories will be born-
born to drift upon a summer wind -
when I am revived on the eighth day,
and return with two legs,
two grasping hands,
two searching eyes,
one pregnant mind,
to whisper in the night with one timid voice,
“story-spinner has eight legs…
have you seen him?
We are needed.”
with each foot in a different world - have you seen him? he is wanted.
- drinks coffee black and bitter some nights,
says "yes” to strangers and gray-eyed goddesses. (born to be weird and wander.)
if you trap him in a walnut shell
he’ll die, like anything else would. (find another medieval cure, please.)
May this muse be of the evening,
and always five senses away.
- sips white sugar-tea on others,
charms unsuspecting little misses eating their way
out of life into dancing la tarantella;
tells lies, but even worse are his truths,
spoken silently in glistening design
to obscure a dripping grin.
he is usually either wasted or washed out -
at least until sunrise.
hell, nor any other realm
under star or over sea,
can keep him out-
all worlds are fair game, and that means your pantry too.
pain shooting up his wrists
while his wily fingers fly;
his eyes are many -
the better to watch you writhe, my dear –
and black, and hungry. (always very hungry.)
in his thin limbs he feels the tremor of the world around him,
the grim vibrations of the muted octave minor;
he marks the most hushed of broken whispers
Because they’re broken,
Not because they’re whispers.
And he " listens",
And he weaves.
I wandered into his webbing
and asked him if he cared to share a tale over a bite and a sip.
“don’t mind if I do!”
replied sly story-spinner,
and wrapping me in his 800-silken-thread count sheets,
he indulged in me –
and I, in him.
(those trembling fibers hold all of our passions and dreams.)
though trapped so tight in his weft I could only shiver,
he felt the pulse of Story in my blood,
saw the web before he saw the weaver -
catching dreams and holding fast -
and so sunk into me his venom
by which a thousand more stories will be born-
born to drift upon a summer wind -
when I am revived on the eighth day,
and return with two legs,
two grasping hands,
two searching eyes,
one pregnant mind,
to whisper in the night with one timid voice,
“story-spinner has eight legs…
have you seen him?
We are needed.”