do you smoke?
silent nod frees alley tears
black shivers
blur the edge of every freckle
titian beauty’s
dropped her streetwise guard
for timeless injury
don’t lose yourself any more
than he has
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due to total absence of muse *sigh – i’m still plugging away at this one – here’s the latest revision …
it never was like that, more
how smooth river slid around her waist
steadying impressive rush
thigh to wing
while she, courting swell and web,
caressed supernatural
feathers
penned immortality, downed throaty
groan, kick and scream alive
float in thrash and foam
not so much inhuman as beyond her
old man’s tired shallows
previous re-write, not in stone – just hoping for some clarity …
It never was like that, more
how the river slid around pale waist
steadying impressive rush
wing to thigh
while she, courting swell and web,
caressed supernatural
feathers in such dreaming
extravagantly white, sky-wild on her.
Not so much inhuman
as beyond
an old man’s comprehension.
i’m sorry, i’ve had cold after cold and now another one .. eerrgghh! am exhausted, please forgive … anyhow try this … it may be rubbish, but i’ve always admired something about Leda and you have to admit, swans are gorgeous lol ….
Leda’s popping dreams and bubbles of restraint;
she’s close, by water’s choice, to the wild charisma,
how he makes her kick-and-scream alive,
feathers in her throaty groan
and god, the perfect catch, between pale thighs.
That old man would claim her later, unaware
of how the river’s thrash and foam
taunted willow, cloning sorrow’s
spineless grace – a net to snare more misery
then gloat about misfortune’s violation
of her nature, clutching, biting moss for more
of that, so deep inside the catacombs of sleep.
Dolly tempted waiter-boys in Marbella,
even after being swallowed by the
pavement yawning into sunny space
between her latest mark and broken bones.
Reeling in the compensation, she had learned
a trick or two in army camp where
Zyclon-B was not for her, no way; whatever
must – when girthed so beautifully desperate.
hanging by my heels from steel
I wish black ceiling higher
but those eyes,
courting briefest glimpse,
do not matter any more
than fear or suicidal impulse
to let go right now,
lose grip and watch finale
glitter play the crowd.
and so your eyes, crying in
the rhythm of each fall,
see everything.
star breath soon became another
wise and incoherent
pattern wreathing
comfort to appease
thing, always scarlet
misperception, mind
grey with fades
of immortality
valid only
in deception’s while
.
The clown of thorns and I made lofty peace;
sunblind quarrels tripped at first rock base,
fell flat in the sand below a dozen barefoot years.
We shared flowers, then, impossible and bright,
gleaned endurance from the rocks,
wondered at the spines of life and our tenacity.
Clearing space for the gulls to scream
was knife-edge easy, way up there.
The horizon’s salty line stayed silent though
we tried to make room for that too.
Perhaps I was distracted, pushed it away
for sweeping curve of wing and wave.
Perhaps I loved so gently in the trysty gorse
that time was saved for ours and now.
The fallen are so beautiful on the flat-line roof.
Golden hues leave me wanting to make love
in the debris, risk moon folly’s be’st,
climb your ribs on wild fingertip and tongue.
Wind upturns hard veins, they spin to face
a glass reflection facing me; there’s more
to come than playing on the dead, I sing,
thinking of your eyes in mine right now.
Let’s push time outside the rain,
it can play instead with that
howling cat who won’t
be silenced, give us chance
to dare this chaos, climbing walls.
It’s been dark all day and though
breathing’s harsh in fever,
passion’s got the upper hand
set on magic while the other traces
hip and brow with steamy earth.
Clock’s ticking, buried in the golden
leaves, let’s not hear it bleating
order, not just yet or ever,
there’s a ceiling to traverse leading
to the sky in wayward gasp.
Dreams slink in moonlight haunts;
zero, clinging to dry leaves,
watches how the hours trip on gravity
and lovesongs trashed in ecstacy
among cold cigarettes …
Night rattles bone and thought slips
out, in search of something,
while i smoke this weighted cliché,
watching time tread eggshells,
wondering what’s left to write.
