Oh, Prufrock...

There must be a still point

amongst these turning thoughts,

a time for quiet hands,

and coffee spoons

that defy measurement.

There must be a way to push through

the yellow fog and curling smoke 

that rubs against us

and sleeps within us

like soft animals.

And yes, there will be time

To rip away from that wall,

Remove the pins from your hands,

March through the eyes and voices,

And fully disturb the universe.

Start murdering and creating already.

Bite off matters indefinitely.

After 100 indecisions and revisions

There must surely be a vision

While you eat your toast and tea.

Do moments really need to be forced to crisis?

Is it always this pendulum of presuming and beginning?

Can you not just eat the goddamn peach?

Feel its soft skin against your palm and lips?

Let the sweet juices run sinfully down your chin?

Here, the women do not come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The white, braceleted, bare arms

Are not privy to porcelain and cushions and charms,

But the idle chatter still buzzes about, still swarms.

So, the evening is spread out against the sky

Streets are sprinkled with terraces and doors
Slender arms and smooth fingers trail by 

Let us peacefully stretch out on the floors

Watch greatness flicker and want nothing more.