DON’T MUSE TOO MUCH

her dimples,
to kiss them,
pour wine in them
and drink,
lap from them,
a harmless dog,
yielding.

those sea eyes,
thumb to brush hair from them,
cradle the wide world gently,
her celestial conglomerate,
my shelter,
her safe
angelic cosmos.

scanning seas,
green-blue or neither,
some new shade
nature never thought
to create.

soul, struggle,
that musical ghost,
spring through chest,
carry her through time.

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ARTIST’S MOON


the bone pearl

glowing no sheen

rabbit-ed with fossil-scapes

starring on Earth

 

vally-ed talcum

thirsty & surrounded

nothing

for infinities

 

faces shed lunatic

cast insane still

passing Sun shielded

in Gaia’s shadow

 

her waiting cold

forever breathless

shines for us.

AUTUMN

death throe of seasons.
Spring the birth,
Summer prime,
Winter destined demise.

cycle end begins come Fall,
so Autumnal resolution for mine:

to burden friends,
scourge myself
awaiting their reply,
shackle necks,
the lot of us,
while the leaf flurries die.

to inspire Joy,
and work each day,
and exist and re-sculpt and revise,
the only comfort besides the balm
of the Autumn breeze outside.

BURNING AN L WITH A MUSE

There was two
tawny coppers,
trussed,
peering behind her boughs
draped on sun-speckled
throat & shoulders.

Breasts, provident bronze
stilled like tacit fruit,
a vernal frame.

Her scentless scent,
ethereal,
poison in mute resonance,
poised in the graceful thought of night.

The moment prior to the bloom.
Earth & partisan parts
captured in muted symphony,
sending themselves about her;
their angelic center.

A sudden flit,
as cautious deer spooked
jet for the woods.
Green spotlight reflections
glint white & vaporize
behind each lash.

Burning auric fingers
briskly exchange
touch to incinerating chill.

With all the blood
in my body rushed,
fantastic plumes
from bell of the brain
knelling
through veins un-rung,
slowly purchasing frequency,
taking heavy sound to silence.

 

*   *   *

 

…was  masochism,
modest, delicate.
Sense-seduction
processed aesthetic
through the rose coloured glasses
and as my brain produced endorphins
was kissed with thoughts virgin to creation.

These blessed tortures
floated down like manna,
sopping honeycomb,
bee-less, fatted amber
in dying sunlight.

Her reflections red,
spark-rutty hazel
off the dusk through her trees,
stole brief moments in our cipher,
present & gone between us 
in wisps of smoke.

LITTLE SPIRIT

Timid & I know this, because she disappears
during conversations.
I’m sure she’s got a make on me too.
Both of us are talking about a lot of things to one another…

So the metaphor is, the metaphor we discussed
the last time we talked:

A bow hunter does not always approach.
Feeling out deer they –sit quietly in the blind,

— mask their scent,
–they are still; every sound in the woods.

It’s learning that that’s the trophy in metaphor.
You gain a little spirit.
Some one that helps you & that makes you proud of them.
Then you are proud of yourself, and
then it’s gone.

Orientation is difficult, and not free, when you meet someone.
So, it is important to nurture connections.
In oceanic wilderness, they are parts of the island chain.

Human connections are real to who ever is smart enough
to admit to them, own them, or understand them.

That is a different comparison.

And that is simple:
the people we meet, even for a short time.
Those we connect with, bond with, and bind to.
They leave but they never go.
They are like reading a story.

All this gives us courage.
All this gives us courage.

AN OVERT VALENTINE TO NO ONE in SWINBURNE’S STYLE [Double Sestina]

Darkness mirrors the blackness of these eyes
and they smolder two terrible fires.
Fracturing all gloomy cast with their light,
each one reflects the colourless cold skies,
map marking the route to lost desires.
Each one offset by whitened cheeks of frost
contrasting the finite furnace of night.
Rocking atop her blackened sea, her waves,
her eyes, immortal triumphs of the womb,
foreseeing in themselves both of their graves,
both cursed to know their folly and their cost
for peering far enough to see their tomb.

What foolishness drained black pools into tomb?
Whose treason bars in crypt her sooty eyes?
They bring who leers at them the warmth of womb,
without supplication and without cost,
set soft beneath the heft of darkened skies.
Who shuns and hides away their brilliant night?
Who’d snuff barely stoked forgotten fires,
meet heavy smoky flames with icy waves,
saturate and sap their bright warming light,
robbing the simple splendor of those graves,
sealed in the pale unhealthy sheen of frost,
and ravaging them of their desires?

Their safety belongs in all desires,
and a heart within that regretful tomb
lies dark, encased in a frigid glass frost.
It remains hidden from all summer skies,
shaded in the constant winter of night,
envisioning two empty winter eyes,
their pulsating obsidian fires
radiating-hot invisible light.
Shining from out the confines of their graves,
and nourishing thoughts as if in the womb
with no remonstrance, or thought of the cost,
all caution simply sinks below the waves.

Those cultured pearls engulfed in maddened waves
are somber-ed silent by their desires.
Drowning under infinities of night,
freezing into eternities of frost,
from icy-maelstrom crying, wept from skies.
Those frozen flakes find deep ocean as tomb,
en masse flurries swim in salt-frothy graves,
snuffing frozen, snowy, achromic fires.
That symphonic silvery truth, their light,
now swatted with a wetted hand, and cost
the world those subtle, lucid blackened eyes,
and cast them to a time before the womb.

“Approach life-waking moment in the womb!
Ebb-wash your cacophonous, unsure, waves.
Impend them as a masquerading frost,
shelter them from the threat of many graves.”
This hymn creates a soul behind two eyes,
steals about them as slurping tongue fires,
burns rays of Sun in shadow creviced night,
blazing sable across malfeasant skies;
they lay waste world in purities of light,
turning planet to devitalized tomb,
celestially quelling vast desires;
voiding universal value of cost.

Piceous onyx eyes know not the cost
they pay upon leaving protector womb,
pushed forth into bleak skirmishes of frost,
life’s debt dug out in front of them as graves.
Glib pits that frame a wilderness of skies,
tourbillion lace above brackish fires.
Earth rains on them in grim showers of night,
covering all but those stygian eyes.
Each specter sings from out their haunted tomb,
and reaching those framed spider webs in waves,
stains a fatal red on my desires;
their pyres birth a sanctity of light.

Aerial eyes on their flyways of light,
never cognizant of their precious cost,
doomed to be enclosed in the house of night,
striped from all directions by its waves.
The night then, it is their immanent tomb,
a sepulcher trapping her drusy eyes,
smothering their microcosmic fires,
suffocating those most beautiful graves.
Freeing them from hell would melt desires
made manacles by punishing frost;
that feeling that returns us to the womb,
stifling us under flesh magenta skies.

Remnant longing under her blush skies
fountain-ing with warm splashes of her light
turn universe to food within her womb,
removing phantasmal cold from the frost.
I place my own bouquet of desires
forever on her startled still-beat graves,
for endless worlds contained within her eyes
mix smooth sun-paint day & coarse sackcloth night.
And so to liberate them from their tomb,
un-phased by the gravity of that cost,
I comb massive landscapes of ocean waves,
to seek shelter in malachite fires.

Archaic method started her fires,
piled them up to oblivion skies,
and so challenged my own true desires
to nurture back those carefree loving eyes.
Let heart bathe long in that exquisite light,
let longing-love cascade down in brisk waves,
protecting from the prehistoric night,
that buried glowing sent from somber graves.
Make their bright earth resend me to the womb.
For this need there could be no obscene cost;
I’d still myself within that shadowed tomb,
I’ll shroud myself in rags of bitter frost.

But those black stars unlock me from my frost
with inferno dressing world in fires,
they’ll place me in the fragile of their womb,
soak me deep in the knowledge of their light.
I’ll swim in their feathery plush of waves,
quaff till drunk the pleasant wine of those eyes,
drink flames from breathless coals of night,
imbibing their dead ember desires.
And steeping in the shadow of her graves
I’ll cloak myself from vicious wintry skies.
And for this gem there cannot be a cost
keeping me from the solace of that tomb.

To spend forever in receptive tomb,
shielded safe from the unforgiving frost,
a thought that laps my shores with gentle waves.
To throw the chains off battened slaver skies
and dance free from the bondage of their light
does not contest with other desires.
Compare not beauty to that resting womb,
her ardent knowing sent from out those graves,
sustaining on the glow of those fires,
the world would disappear but for those eyes.
To try and find the sum of that bright cost
will just puzzle in multitudes of night.

The capacity of colourless night
a most brilliant, empty, familial tomb,
rendered helpless from its defensive frost
by doubled wall of invincible light,
a new born stare from out the dulcet womb.
Negligent of life’s magnificent cost
and virgin to all the Earth’s desires,
a calming sea of softly tossing waves,
under orange blanketed morning skies,
cradles her marvelous sailing fires.
Those pyres glisten as ritual graves
and burn forever; those furious eyes.

From out the tomb, from out the shallow graves,
in waves resonating from out the womb
in streaming white beams across the night skies,
light frisks and melts the frozen skin of frost,
and fires from the loveliest of eyes
repay the cost of all my desires.