John Coltrane

These cold-trains

of thoughts

causes conniption fits

across my cerebral cortex.

I wish to lie down

in the vortex

of warm actions.

Contractions from unspoken

verbal interactions

derived from venus's

flytrap.

Can you feel the rhythm

of the night,

the nights twilight

has burned a hole

into the soles of my feet.

I keep tapping,

enjoying the flow

of fluidity from the Sex.

I mean Sax,

for it reaches to such a heights and stays there .