Wish You Were Here

                                 Wish you were here, to witness my vain attempt at preparation. To transcend daytime thoughts and stale acquaintances. Among luscious brown meadows and illustrious green prairie-ways, fertility and significance envelopes our culture. Beneath candy yellow eyelids, and pale honey suckle cheekbones. Our bodies subside restlessly together. In afternoon apocalypses, below hypnotic cloud formations. Your sensual touch chills my frail vulnerable marrow, sensations down my primitive infrastructure, Fatigue increases, while evening shadows spread throughout narrow vestibules. Darkened fragments in dusty remote urban corners.
                                  What moments unfold before me in tragic premonition? Your maternal feline instincts surround my naive playing field. Knowledge of assorted demi-gods leave vast margin for consequential human error. It is all quite perpetually stigmatic.
                                 When you were young you stared out towards afternoon suns and grim majestic mirages through tranlucent glass mirrored windows. Then out through the creaking front door, you strolled out onto deserted city streets, white cemented pavements ascended sharp heat that glazed your particular body frame. Towering glass skyscrapers, and tar-brown monuments, stained the shimmering horizon. You were adolescent and juvenile then. Sordid years of meticulous sordid architecture and blue dazzling Summer ocean waves. Gaunt and mesmerizing, myriad citizens of morbid population. Jaded and perpetually threatening. The placid evening speaks in haunting undertones.
                                 I miss your immaculate feminine portrait, your fragile quaint voice still speaks to me in surreal languages and melodic rhythms . The mud, dirt and folly of modern centuries fall short in describing personal failure. Our Autumn was an Autumn of disbelief. A lucid transgression of maintenance apparatus and cleaning supplies, to sweep and mop up the residue of one's past. You've seen me at my worst, it was none too pretty. A lot of booze and money flushed down residential toilets canal-ways. What I'm trying to say is I wish you were her in my jaded territory, to share my love among thwarted routines. Some are boring, others quite tiresome. Chore-like at best on Mondays. The rural township speaks out in irritating decibels and intervals. When we both have what we want, we shall desire something else. Isn't that the fallacy we are doomed and condemned to work with? But for now I shall admire vintage photographs and old records we shared, decades ago, among forgotten terrains of lost innocence.