Reflections on the Confession of Tiger Woods
Slowed by what slows the mood
I locate by moving slowly the good
Which is simply the bad passed
Without, in the process, becoming toast.
Sex addicts and poets are lost
In the flood of power that most becomes
Those who reside in interior luxury;
The sea overrides the beach, desires
To reach the inland empires, may breech
The green controlled lawns of golf;
There is a gulf between swing and speech,
But tongue and arm both touch
The rough yawn that lies between fire
And rain, beauty and being plain;
No god or man or woman resists a lyre
If plucked by a finger that has tension
And release at its recall; longer fingers
Better caress the strings. Redder lips best
Sing of wine and grape-sweet nights;
Light demolishes the injurious sheets,
Renders them just fabric, not gold thread,
Pulls back the lids to let us see
That the lover we sought to overcome
In our riding passion is a tomb,
And all the soldiery are not drunk but dead.
Skin is what we touch to comprehend our
Own infrastructure, feels softest if bare;
Move with care and caution in the lounge
Where VIP and vampire entertain each other
With intoxicating indifferent motions in the air.
Such places are not places to pitch a soul,
But gutters for excrement to thrust slop on;
So castles and cathedrals are white bowls;
Our beds are also toilets of a loose dawn.
poem by Todd Swift
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