lokee :
My blade is colored with his blood
My boots are caked with reddened mud
A clumsy jab, a muffled moan
And this mans blood melds with my own
With horrible pain comes my breath
And soon, I fear, I'll meet my death
Fiery sparks from blood stained swords
Shine light unto the darkened gore
A flash of light, a busted face
A sudden, shock, a cold embrace
Then with terror, I realize
Something familiar in his eyes
And suddenly I finally see
The enemy I fight is me
Sex Without Love :
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
