The philosophers stone

Out of lack,

I said I’d kill my Saturday

Night with poesy

And true

Form, as a philosophy

Is dead

Quite literally.

Formless, she’s there

Materia prima, earth

Mother,

From her formless

Base, leaves curl

Upward to Light,

Life shapes

In her wake.

Like Eden, like the philosophers stone, like Sappho, lost to history, made formless, without feminine sexuality..

Like everyone

I try find what I’m looking

For, my heart

Taken by her, how to win her

How to take hers, I kill my

Saturday night, cause I can’t

See what I’m looking for.

Was it once lost in space?

And now, knowing my

Place, bow before, and

Knowing her now

The world takes shape

Around her, and I find

This:

The materia prima, her,

A woman’s fertility, a rock,

A stone, and I,

A philosopher.