The Dock at Parsons Lake

[tectak]

Dark has driven its tent spike into this side of the world      
and I just want everyone to shut the fuck up, turn down      
or off or out, so I can be alone  tighten up this excellent opener by cutting down on the"or" options. Impact is always lost if you give the reader choices. The technique only works  if you are trying to make your character permanently dithering. You do not want this. The next lines are strong and purposeful.  
with the words in your veins    
and the drug-like high waiting on your tongue. "drug-LIKE" is a weak simile in disguise.  Is it LIKE a drug-INDUCED high, or is it another high.If the latter...what is it? 
     
I want the tires on the highways to quit rolling, English tyres      
this supply and demand society to forget itself and fast.
Maybe if it lost a few pounds of media opinions Unrelated "it"     
some handfuls of people could find God for real   Drop the "some". It is over implied by not saying "all the people"    
and stop calling her names like political power     
or dead presidents or replacement theology. slightly embarrasing double-dilemma with the her-god thing. Damned if you do sex god, damned if you don't. By blatant sexism you introduce a point not required. Off on a tangent agenda. Your poem.    
     
I just want to wear your skin in the soft cricket songs of summer,      
swaying with the breeze as it hums itself around our shoulders      
and our soles grow new shoots into the sky.     Just bloody magnificent
     
I want to hold the coals of your eyes  
as they blaze over me in baptizement      
nourishing drought dry wells I forgot I'm made from.and again but drought-dry    
     
I just want to yield and demand with nothing but my breath,  
as you crochet the sounds into a long shawl that will protect us    
when the flash and flush of that first bloom quiets itself      
in autumn, and I draw pictures of poems we tangled ourselves into      
by dragging my fingertips through frosted window panes we erected     dangerously wordy made more apparent by the crispness if what has gone before. This stanza needs chopping up... but use a scalpel, not an axe. No chips should escape.

inhaling the crisp air hovering over them,      
knotting new octaves into almost silent heartbeats,      
kissing the chill from one anothers palms    
     
until I thaw. This sentence is just too long to even read in my head. I started to flake out...as does the intent if you stretch things past Young's modulus. It just won't return to shape...especially as you stretch it some more with the following "And".
And I just want to be those words in your veins, closer than home    
nearer the bone    
while cicadas wake in chorus at sunrise and I'm your mystery girl again.

Some would say it is good to return to veins...but I think you could do better. I cannot.
Hi aish, where you been?
Liking it.
Best,
tectak