Cocky Dancing Poem by Akash Justin Ovian

Oh, I’ve been telling you lies and dying,
To the opinion that God has held
I seem to keep rambling about the time,
That we died, to that colorful dream
Ah baby it seems that my legs are shaking,
Oh drunk from the night before
When the sweet little girls were laughing,
And drinking that boggling brew

Ah, ah, there is no hope for the dreamer,
In this maze of money and number
Nibbling on ice, picking the lice,
I count my own apologies
I’ve let you far beyond my own demise,
Into that boring abyss
Again, why why why do we fear his highness?
The king of rape and murder
Why why why do we search for the truth?
Beneath his satin blanket

Its soft, yes, pleasure is soft
She pays me with sweet drinkable blood
Ah, yes, deceit is so dimming,
Of mood and cool lunar delight
Ah, baby come lick the cream off my eyebrows,
Poke my heart with your converse heels
I’ll see through the dark into the light,
For that little needle-hole of hope

Every little grain and flower,
Comes to the grave of time
Every penny that bought you sweets,
Will be re-spent on the same old thing
Its unclear, why I devise these rings,
To what small purpose I’d never know
But it sure does give the groove to the heel,
To know that one day we will all be dead

You see, you see, song and the summer are made for the drummer,
That beats cotton rocks to convey the rhythm of the sunlight
One ray of moonlight beam can have you drunk to the bone,
And hurl you to yourself endlessly
Is there a need? For me to be reasonable!
Hey? Is there a need for me to be real?
I wonder I wonder, if you’ll come touch my splendor,
When I thieve at your threshold with ignoble means

Ah sweet ladies, the concert has begun
Undress yourselves and proceed to the dancing room
The ritual is simple, un-theistic movement
And a departure from lament

Ooooohhh… Look, humanity has unrobed itself
Now we dreamers can weave a new landscape
Free of the fear that consumed us with beer
Now we dreamers can lay awake in the morn,
And smoke the last bit of uncompromising grass

Seems like I’ve touched your hips with my toes,
Maybe next time I will with my brows
But till then loving dancers,
The spectacle does not end
I will return
And have you dancing again