eternal effeminate

do men needs must still be so afraid of tigers,

that for a fascination to ward off them nightily creeping by

they made half-reveiled sigla of divinities out of women?

the need we have for flowing tears and skirts...gauzy, quelling things

hiding some hollows sharp and capable of maiming beneath it?

yet we derive hence too the all-generative---full of moments of energy

that fulcrum of wonder-spirit uplifting the carnal

from act of filling the absence...either

in a rose-tinted, deep and stolen kiss

"a being-there-in-that", or "-in-this" too which is a line of enquiries

by way of the rough updrawing of a woman's cataracted skirt?

eternal effeminate: a puerile fop for propping mankind's eternal moral recreation-wise?

what is this and that childish, so very childish pleasure descended thereof

from all those fallen, broken fragments of snuffed-out dream pieced together--

I saw vaguely rolling down like snowballing dandruff-flakes from the orange skirt of a woman

an orange, skirt, pock-fretten, and imprinted with the flaming, divine death too --but losing something daily nonetheless?

a smooth, man-devouring skin-tiger under rose-dimpled pitfalls,

of sudden horripilation, erected pain that thus speeds and hides away beyond

the blue, mountainous horizon of lingering memories each day

thus taking away the day's lingering despair through those dandruff-gusts

and leaving only the abandoned kills behind dusk's heavy veil

that then from the leftover by the feet under the dress,

I scrape by the warmth of my whole livelihood

and have stocked up all those unpartable viands of life?

https://youtu.be/QrVmORgomfA?si=dObvlXAGtt6m48du