Poem Number 1170

Violins blowing through veils from heaven to earth
a curtain too thin, a raspy voice begins
to fly, and all is vaguely remembered
between dream and knowledge
Where is the light?
It's not in my porridge
but I see it on your lips
carressing me tonight
on a marble floor, in a Roman bath
powdered blue, very dark blue
the music sounds so good
as it drips down your back
sweetness bites
then plays the guitar
for such a forgiving crew
applauding behind the camera
We work for free
and we smoke 100 feet from the door
Our lives have no special effect
on that of the pampered star