Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Untitled

A story was sitting in my bedroom, naked.
It was new story, even a sexy story,
but a strange story and I didn’t know
what it was doing on my bed, naked.

Now it was writing in a book at my desk, naked.
The fountain pen was squirting ink on it,
I could hear the voices coming from it but
I couldn’t imagine what it was doing there, naked.

It was laughing like a mad woman, naked.
It had tattoos on its face and neck
but magic was coming from its fingertips
and it was singing to me softly, naked.

Memory is imagination, naked
so ask me what I did there that night
and I’d smile and mysteriously tell you
a story was sitting in my bedroom, naked.