My Pinocchio series continues ...
Pinocchio’s first date:
Without strings decisions meander
into the darkness, twinkle as if a mirror
is behind each thought reflecting that
which lies behind. A key might be better,
turned by unseen hands so the coil is set
free and decisions spin to the tune
of burning rubber. The ballerina dances
in her box, in permanent night, waiting
for my call. I can picture her lips,
her small breasts and thighs more advanced
than my desire. I cannot dial the number!
I have splinters in my heart, my lips
are chewed by teeth holding back the words
I want to whisper. I can smell her ears -
their secret wax ready for my tongue,
a seal stronger than any kiss.
Her music haunts me.
The Hurdy Gurdy heart thumps.
It is a large step moving from child
to holding the ballerina’s hand.
Her eyes sparkle like light caught
along the edges of a serrated leaf.
I feel the future autumnal flutter
in the diminishing space between my legs.
We are an ocean pulled
by the memory of single cell moons
towards infinite repetition.