Z …

Z … read (red?) by Shell

Your alphabet concludes with z while
mine is just beginning, taking off
into symbolic realm where there are
no fences, safety nets or comfort
cloned to tame and shame emotion’s rite.

No, I will not even try to breathe your
language grinding jealous fear and
ownership which may, at any time, be
sold or skinned from bone in battle.

Instead, i’ll fly beyond poor limits, you
will fail to find my open sky where
z is just a bat-snack in a quantum mist.

Bruises fade and when you pull that bitter
splinter from pale heart you’ll find no
scars to mourn, no trail of tears to show
i’d ever been there to disturb your night.

billet doux

billet doux read by Shell

You never read these kisses but keep them anyway;
unwrapped every now and then – to amuse
the passers-by and their dogs who chase my words
balled up in string – they unwind even in the dim
before disintegration vents wild succulence apart.

You cannot, will not, see my kisses smile away
their weight and wasted time – but hush,
the dogs are happy, that’s enough for now,
their tongues and tails are wagging for the moon.

unnameable …

unnameable read by Shell

in a deliciously strange way this poem was inspired by gingatao’s post on art and passion. you can find it here …

So come on, Lord, give it to me
tempest style, hips ’n’ ravens
flying fast and furious.
I know you like bravado style,
full-on performance art,
flames and magic twirling
wheat ‘n’ chaff all-ways;
still, it took us all to shaft
that one, didn’t it?

Not so easy meat that one,
there are problems with duality
and gifts like that, well,
let’s just say it’s lucky that all
artists crave extinction.
So come on, Lord, give it to me.

What are you thinking now,
right this haloed moment?
Maybe we could do it over latte?