Dream-time: The time of the creation of the world in Australian Aboriginal mythology: "Aboriginal myths tell of the legendary totemic beings who wandered across the country in the Dreamtime . . . singing the world into existence" (Bruce Chatwin, Songlines).
---I dreamed you last night, remembering.
How did it make you feel when you woke?
Stripped like paint, laid bare like wood.
Like you uncover and navigate the erotic geography of my mind with language. Like you mark and uncover the songlines of my body by singing me into existence. The lift and fall of my orgasm, the call and response of your own. It goes like this, the fourth the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift....I dreamt you and the dreaming sang my desire into existence.
Your singing revealed the planes and curves, the hills and valleys of my body, the leap and fall of coming, the lift and rise of my breathing, the cleft in my sex and the fountain springing. You were the cartographer for the rise and fall of my wanting, you charted the dizzying steps to the heights and measured and marked the long slow plunge below.
I woke and thought of you between my thighs, drinking me like a river.
Labels: jeff buckley, kitchen chair, lift |
Closed/on Hiatus
![Your writing in the other hand [sic] is pure filth and disgusting.](http://www.gotbears.com/gund/sesamestreet/75985.jpg){kind=link}
For some reason this post reminds me of part of an Adrienne Rich poem... part 2 of 21 Love Poems.
II
I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you've been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I've been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You've kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone . . .
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.