it's time now

Strung out on love I remember you when you were perfect, All night long I’m the liquid sky seer, Bubble eyed against the atmospheric barrier, Up town to have seen the professor, And not be related to, Looking for her notes of my constellations, Pictures she drew the night before, I knew whe had the perfection of the universe, And I was blistered, betrayed, bungled by not belonging, A tongue on cloud nine, Tuesday mornings paper thin truth, The gland of a spore in an empty of hand, Every moment a million enzyme melt down, The primordial spawning, Daisy lilting, Skipping lenses magnify, Trimming windows on the lighthouse, Slipping them into the middle season, Splitting tributaries in soft minded self matter, Pale mazes seldom scene, Angled into into childhood again, Polished appetite, Prayer with a solid presence, Strung out through time, I was a serpentine crawler, Little dna dust bowl tea pebble, Bleeding destinies wounds, Half worn best impressions Of a desperado who said I love you. An embroidered uniform capsule, Little dancer blowing in the wind looking for the answer, In need of a sharpshooter for the afternoon, To the gallery to see if really has the imaginary friend up and running, And they will hold hands together for the number cruncher, And enter the uninhabited essence, And then not recognize each other ever again, And give up looking, And days beginning to evaporate, leaving nothing in there disappearance, and that became their solace, the falling rain of silence that came down around each other, that became the hidden context for their connection, the rain of such a quiet breath, it was as if time stood still to listen, and all they had of love, and they wanted to perfect themselves for it, now finally what the meant to each other, to learn the quiet way that gave all its attention to listening to the sound of eternity, and its release, the ratio of closeness and unchosen the depth of time broken at night pulling in closer all the remaining dizzying heights of half truth recitals, and touch and breathe once again in the melody that was never theirs anyway, wasn’t mine so I could relax completely, and be properly crushed into vapour, and the mirror is closer to the air, strung out by a look from crowded stranger of a clouded danger of closeness unchosen it was another time I mean, full of ammunition and dreams, strung out in a quiet dream rain, the sign of eternity and its release, and the depth of time to touch and breathe again the sound of the machine, that trapped our light, an experiment with the speed of soundwaves, the earth just a pore in some inter-dimensional membrane, breathing costumes and a cup of tea across the deathless, seeds and pollens push and pull, veils and seals, footprints in the grass, a handful of leaves in the wind, and in between we dream of each others wings and their flights in white cliffs and ice cold light they tried to touch and then they turned to hide their own echoes, by holding the sound with a very heavy breath, to touch the primordial and they got between each others meaning, the shadow of every thousand centers, a hundred thousand centuries carry the virgin bride, asleep in perfect trust, sunset in her shoulders, put on all the afterlights and I can swim away, a half breed in the southern wind, rubber gloves a bow tie and a twist, I think of you waiting back there on the shore, Signal towers puttings lipstick on her armies, Lost in time and other organizations, Her tight rope I’m sitting on a pile of sand, Funny strings rain the veil, Secrets of the desert matched for a decade, Strung out in time, erasing the dawn, Back before their were tomorrows, And any shape of the night seemed like forever, Held together by a snow angel, the white Madonna, The river of my belonging,. Has too many heart beats, Under the quiet thunder, Outside the whisper, And hope for a magneto change, But the locusts paint my face, And the hands of the clock out of reach, I make them look like techtonic plates, And I thought I heard them calling my name, The night mare turns red, I nice ripe aged, Lilacs a loose wheel, but I didn’t get very far, copyright david ruther