tripper gypsy

Don’t speak,
or the world will pop
like a bubble,
like red cherries
on an ice cream cone.
She moves her skirts,
and people watch the
sunlit, wind-woven harmonies
collide with their eyes.
She’ll stay until
she has to go.
Run your fingers through
her hair, long and full of
incense smoke,
down the glittering magic
of her neck and ankles.
Watch her as she runs away,
laugh at her escape,
and know she can’t be
held in your
palm.

37 Comments

  1. I’m sure you are already quite aware of how much of an inspiration you are, but it still, it never ceases to amaze me how your thoughts spill so beautifully on these pages. J’adore.

  2. I love how you choose certain details to include! I won’t comment more specifically, but if you are curious … search for and read “Fetish” on my blog LOL It should explain. Great poem!

      1. Hello.. Your poem.. ‘Done in sense of real’.. enjoyed.. ‘worship or disdain’.. see then slip from pain.. just a ride in living love.. woman dance to feel..
        I still wonder.. laughing appreciation.. how a woman dances in peaceful
        rebellion.. beautiful.. seeks to dance forever.. Peace Tony 🙂

  3. I only wish we knew each other so it wouldn’t be weird to get this poem etched into my skin for eternity. Lol 😛 seriously though, I think this might be my favorite, although with your talent it is hard to tell.

      1. Would you like it to be signed “shrinksaren’tcheap”?

        I hope you know I am entirely serious.

        If my next comment is a poetic bloody mess of ink and scabs do not be startled! 🙂

        1. Oh my god, you are fucking delightful. I am already startled! You could probably sign it, “Georgia”, in the alternate universe where this actually happens. Again: FUCKING DELIGHTFUL : )

Love you, too

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