a string taut enough to spurt that note which rings in the hollows of our hearts, but only too slack when I find my gaze rest nervously in the tension of your lips apart…
I spark the fire of desire, feel the voice take hold of you, when perspiration, inspiration, burn in my heart a hole or two… unfolds a shrewd flower that only birds with needle beaks could drink to their fill… ecosystem, rude destruction, find those lonely blades of grass a rhythm, a place to spin their happy trill…
I wonder why the bug was dead… what intent or accident, one could make no droopy head or toe… Inside the simple poetic places, I hear you couldn’t stay alone. Come take my hand, lets weave some music, make a song to keep you warm in moonless nights, after the splash, the cold lash, of a winter shower…
your drunken eyes they make me break into a song of soft desire, a crackling fire, once again to the glory of our sweet desire, once again to your sweeter glory, my favorite story…
no dismal dance… no distant dire drains of dingy dismal brews… whose indeed the voice that enters, sturdy doors of secret… secret… secret rooms…
Story Of The Footloose 