he was a beautiful thief in the night

14 December 2009
he was a beautiful thief in the night
with a handbag full of greek syntax there was nothing he couldnt do right
or wrong – or up or down, or east or west, nothing
nothing could steal syllables he’d tucked into the tiny pockets
and he lent from those he stole a dream
Medea’s dream: a dream of might, eye sockets,
	dry and pale.
When the scooter stalled, letters clattered loose over stone
bottlenecked, in the participles of success
his beauty blinded. His swagger, lost in the night.
And how the night edits!
He steps into the gaps between the words, curls around a comma
like a tadpole, for language swims our blood and
and curdles our silent scream
	this thief in the night
all father land and mother tongue
pebbled the night ’scape
	stoned jar slaked no thirst like this
	ransomed meter run
Touched my life and broke my heart
with his quicksilver tongue that strung fairy lights into the night sky as he
        seduced and stole the moon and slipped her pale light into his pocket
        just to illume you
or so he said. The fairy lights paled in the morning and the moon was gone altogether
and not only that, a fierce storm was rolling in – it looked like rotten weather
so he hoist her sails and in he plunged
pity he got caught -beauty should be free
He turned her blood, her life's stream, into a black sea that with it's rage rose like a tsunami
the hurt – it feels so real
if I could warm that hurt and make it subside…
which I cannot, because a thief is a thief!
         a criminal, accountable for vexations he has caused
ah! yes ! he mused, love is a thief… yet none complain of its robbery…
         now if i were to steal the priest's golden cup and give its contents
         by deception to the unbelievers
still my cup runneth over to thievery's side spoiling for tales with a slick sleight of hand
brilliant dramatic monologue … some guys get the order wrong so many times.
         … dam that golden fleece.
A poet? He's the guy who writes the insides of Hallmark cards.
         Wish you were here. Not.
Aaaah, yes, the morning after diatribe…
         well now, girl…you knew the risk to diss a thief.

I know a poet writes with feeling. 
         but Re Yolly’s comment. 
         Forgive my youth but who is Yolly wishing not to be there?? 
         The thief???

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