I bought her words. brought them home to my soul
and saw the throng swaying and beating to the
singular cello thrumming
she... starry eyed and bent forward,
stroking her ideas between her legs, conceiving, and birthing her children in the form
of tones, ringing down among the crowd
waiting
she sits with her angels and her prophet
the beast
in a heaven laced with strings, and misted with cigarette smoke
the beat hits your toes
like so many droplets of moon blood hitting the floor
and crawls up your spine,
and the young stand agape at her feet
and proclaim her goddess of
lyric and prose meter and tone
and of sex, pure and crystalline
and everyone says... that
cellists do it with their legs spread, while in a chair.
-by Bryna