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Mythic She
by
Middlepoet ©

Fluid precision like vibrations of bass drum
rhythms.

Speakers are chronicling immersion, baptizing
Benjamin’s folded into the Wocket’s pocket,
protected from Spacely Sprocket and the ways
of imperialism.

Henna drenched hands weave hemp into
papyrus writing the ways of a forgotten haze
smoked purple from beyond the womb.

Hips holding a mark for imagination, swaying
against the breeze blowing beyond
outstretched palms, supporting the weight of
the cross amidst the bodies in motion.

An Oracle speaking of movement towards the
primitive future of televised revivals.

The funds that raised Eve from her knees.

She could not help her color.

The genius of the incision became murky
during fertilization, contractions causing her
stomach to tremble in synchronized time with
the snare.

A rotation of undulation in the axis of the
globe, creating a calming madness in the
thrust of senses.

Medusa was stuck in the corner puffing on the
hookah, longing to collect unemployment.

A hermit on the beach enjoying the smell of
sand that dwells within the shell. Horrified by
the revelation that nobody moved the cheese
until after the first record started spinning.

Retelling tales told to tall for Hiawatha, as he
was tucked inside the covers on the shores of
Gitche Gumee waiting to be mothered within
the wigwam of Nokomis, daughter of the moon.

She spins like hoops on hips, rotating away
from the darkness housing Orcs inside of a
reality documentary. Her swaying reinvigorates
the youth’s prime.

Rib created divine design.

3 days away from tomorrow we began to dance.
My scent of a woman appeared on her dog day
afternoon.

Discovering Eve at the dawn of a once
forgotten day.

Her breath is a baptism blowing beyond mortal
being’s believing in a trinity.

An origin, a communion, communicating her
conception, immaculate with its cleansing of
soul.

I pray facing east of her altar.

Eight candles away from eight days of
darkness standing atop burning shrubbery,
commanding to set sail with ten arks, to
preserve the march, of two solitary forms
bound by the covenant of Jesus juice.

She made mermaids make believe.

Writing intelligence into my being in cursive,
morphing into calligraphy she scripted me into
my role of warrior poet.

Shacked up, poet and princess if only for an
instant, bouncing through hills and shires
creating earthlings  out of Halflings, with
armor of gilded gold glitter.

Garnishing hips of the belly dancer encircling
smoke rings while the hookah sings.

Through libations of labia, lapped into world
record circles, spinning concentrically from
nobility to the peasantry.

Periods of privilege were denied by the clergy,
inside of menstrual cycles rotating.

Hovering amidst galactic designs of stalactite
mines hanging upside down inside of
ultrasound variations within the Rasta man
vibrations.

Passing like Nymph’s in the wood.

She replicates a myth in the hood.

Crystal eyes poised to prize a pull of her.

Inhaling in spirals etched by Escher, only to
be the M.C. spitting Ragga at Alice while Mel
dines behind her in a land of wonder.

She released joy to the wolves, filling the
desert expanse with realities mirage.

A cavalcade of characters, have carried her
into my circus of the bizarre.
©2005 by Middlepoet
All rights reserved.