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Robin
Junior Member

since 1999-08-07

Posts 48
Cardiff, Wales, UK

0 posted 1999-08-11 01:32 PM

Languid Sunday in a bamboo-blind room
Where we lay for the day with two bottles of wine,
Engrossed in the week laid out to be read
And Miles Davis added his brass-blessed notes
To the feel of your skin.
I trace each curve with my eyes,
My fingers, my tongue
And you stretch out with a sigh in the crackling pages
Of gathering wars and economic gloom.
The sun through the blind caresses your skin
With tiger lines that sway as you move
A diaphanous sheet on silk smooth flesh
As you turn to face me once more
Eyes closed, lips set to whisper.
We kiss, a taste that lasts for the day
Of dry white grape on a salt bed of sweat
And the warmth of your arms
Banishes the sun’s rays

Miles, restarts his song.

Brad
Member Ascendant

since 1999-08-20

Posts 5705
Jejudo, South Korea

1 posted 1999-10-21 03:11 AM

This is from a while back but I like the imagery here. No, I don't think it's perfect but just thought I'd bring it up.
Brad

hoot_owl_rn
Member Patricius

since 1999-07-05

Posts 10750
Glen Hope, PA USA

2 posted 1999-10-22 12:53 PM

Well, perfect it may not be, but almost as close as it can get

I love the intense imagery in this piece. The final two lines, such a wonderful summation to this piece. I think I might like to see a break in this one, let the reader catch hi/her breath, there is so much information being presented, almost a sensory overload.
perhaps:
Languid Sunday in a bamboo-blind room
Where we lay for the day with two bottles of wine,
Engrossed in the week laid out to be read
And Miles Davis added his brass-blessed notes
To the feel of your skin.

I trace each curve with my eyes,
My fingers, my tongue
And you stretch out with a sigh in the crackling pages
Of gathering wars and economic gloom.
The sun through the blind caresses your skin
With tiger lines that sway as you move
A diaphanous sheet on silk smooth flesh
As you turn to face me once more
Eyes closed, lips set to whisper.
We kiss, a taste that lasts for the day
Of dry white grape on a salt bed of sweat
And the warmth of your arms
Banishes the sun’s rays

Miles, restarts his song.

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