SOMETHING GREEN

Callously separated cranial passage

designed like something green

which dances and sways

in the victim’s dreams,

as to the cerebral contingent’s

dance and play,

I don’t consider it the realm of hamsters

to vomit up strange hues.

This mystery dwells in caverns

filled with conifers

and the teeth of rare sharks.

Deliberate monastic orders fall

over the influence of vaginal tics

and clitoral laughter.

Who said you were of virginal dreams?

I spread my fingers through moisture dreaming.

I laugh like the climbing pizza

thrown in the face of orchestral jazz

and find an apish grin inside your bucket.

Run into the night of grey petunias

with your ultraviolet flashlight

and gather the nectar of loves forgotten.

We are not automatic like tombstones

but spontaneous dwellers in the tops of trees

whose fingers tickle us delightfully

and run through the hair of our dreams,

guests of the sweet-brained monkeys

whose mischief dances like volcanoes

between our pulsating thighs.