Beneath

Two part harmonies amongst the trees along the lake

The man inside the cubicle is my muse for today

but I want to leave this place

where the air is heavy with need and urge

and all are looking down at their shoes

and all birds are flying up

beyond their nests and young

The bottom of the glass holds no secret

and the secret is the bottom of the glass

and when I get fucked I moan and grunt

like every other office boy

in this autumnal summer

And you who tie the bells to my ankles

and plant the snowbells in the ice

you wont get away with the murder

beneath the thunderclap

beneath the christmas tree

beneath the feet of the weary soldiers

beneath the books and pens

I hold out my hand

and you take it and you tell me

'There is a crease down the middle of each open book

and the paper is nice and white and pale

and a pencil is thrown between the pages

and history is created/imagined/made'

and you were talking about fucking the office boy

and having him as your muse

each grunt each moan a separate page

for your genius

Let thy apple fall 

Let thy ink spray

Assist and detest

I hold your angel in my hand.