And A Swelling
little girl who aches
an aching of which she has no ken, save
an itch, and
a swelling...
quiet voice inside her head
whispering
as her blood seethes
and piles of dirty panties
one after another after another
sticky and wet and filthed...
and she aches in secret places
blood, seething
an ache of which she barely understands
and the itch, which drives her
mad
and a swelling
and quiet, soothing voice inside her head
whispering...
and piles of filthy panties
dirty and wet and seething, one
after another, after
another
aching til she cries
and the itch, which drives her
mad
Calling Down The Clouds
a long and curious bridge which spans from then to now
from now into the timelessness
the piers were raised from your perfume
and the struts from voices which fill your head,
whispering...
the sea from your timeless thighs which open and close,
liquid, rolling, calling down the clouds to join the feast
such a painting could never have the form you wanted,
needed, or the magic for which you worked so hard
your body covered in the colors your restlessness demanded
the only recourse: keep painting, and hope your dreams were not so alone
as the brush you held
it's a curious bridge that spans from then to now
from curious dreams to curious fear to the voices which fill your head,
whispering...
all liquid, all color, all calling down the clouds to feast
and the canvas grows and forms and tells the tale of every lonely night
when your thighs opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and
closed
body colored in the restlessness your dreams required, the only recourse:
silence
Safely In Love's Pocket
I saw you this morning... you did not see me. At first, I wasn’t sure, but then you turned and all at once, I fell deeply into the distant comfort of something we once had. But not anymore. Not anymore...
Where does love go when it dies? Is it as a cat, seeking some quiet, private place to draw its last breath? And if so, where is it interred... is there some quiet, private place I can go to visit and then mourn? Or perhaps not even to mourn but to, at least, mouth some few quiet, heartfelt things and then remember...
How can we know something so well, so completely, so intensely, only to watch it walk away... and of course pieces of us go with it; riding along, safely in love’s pocket, or tucked away in some small but cluttered bag. Ah, but there is the pain, there is the real agony of love’s leaving; pieces of us going away with it. I would rather those pieces died than to attach themselves to something of which I will know no more... that is the real heartache, I think; that pieces of us continue on, wandering the earth and heavens with something we can no longer touch, or feel.
Where does love go when it dies... to some quiet, private place to draw its last breath? Is there a grave somewhere, hidden from the bustle and the hurry and the aching of life’s pain? Is there a tiny piece of land with a well-cared-for lawn upon which I might lay flowers and my tears, and mouth some few, small, heartfelt things? Or must I be fated to merely ride along in secret, tucked away safely in love’s pocket or some small, private, well-cluttered bag...
I saw you this morning. You did not see me. I wasn’t sure, but then you turned and I fell deeply into the comfort of something we once had. But not anymore. Not anymore...
Where does love go...
Trapped, In Amber
no words will ever heal the rift between heart and mind,
emotion and analysis
the wick has burned down, drowned in a pool of molten wax
asphyxia, in sublime communication with the mother of her suffering
like you...
taking what your breath doesn't need
and running with it...
and your blood runs, hot
not unlike the molten wax, immersed in its own deliverance
such a pretty little thing, the sparse and harrowed starling
pretty beak and pretty wings, and pretty eyes and pretty feet
forever
scratch, scratch, scratching...
a little wick, if, left to her own devices will forever burn down
submerged in her liquid mother, until time cools, jells and hardens
and then she is trapped, in amber, just like that ant from the Cenozoic Age
yet the blood runs hot, not unlike
the molten wax...
like you
asphyxia, in sublime communication with the mother of her suffering
taking what your breath no longer needs
and running with it...
and her blood runs hot
Comes Knocking
your scent comes in waves, floating
musk, brimstone and lilac
tiny ampoules of your sweat swell and burst
penetrating...
your body's flesh is hot and real
vivid and glowing, frayed and torn
the scent of you is strong in the wind
comes knocking, insistent
one could lose their way, following...
your womb is soft and yields, inviting
the gate is guarded by eyes of fire
tongues of flame
words of magma and,
brimstone...
hot and real, vivid and glowing
torn and frayed
penetrating
one could lose their way...
and eyes of fire
magma
Just Out Of Sight
vibrations stir memory, once lost, once found
slipping between fingers, grasping in solitude, for want of better things
and so the waters are stilled, the cloudless skies float past
on their journey to other places which must remain secret
there is no better way...
and dreams, fulfilled, remain just out of sight
just over the next hill, just beyond the range of hearing
nether lips, swollen and hot, wet and lonely
needful in hope, awaiting a sound of greeting...
and so filled to bursting, hearts of solitude and stillness
so in contrast of heated blood, so wary and lean
suspect and shadowed, waiting on dawn...
on their journey to other places which must remain dark
unknown, hot and wet, lonely and needful...
sweat-soaked and needful in hope...
greeting
And Laced With Blood
gone with the years, tumbling down
through eons and ages
the beauty fades not with time
calendar, silent witness to the changes which never come
not a line nor a wrinkle nor a crevice to mar the perfect skin;
unblemished...
breasts, as pure cream, smooth and sweet
pretty vulva, unchanging, fat and laced with blood
pulsating down through centuries
belly, soft, nurturing, sleek and ripened
and only the eyes, aged
old and wary, yet
forgiving...
sparkling in the hurried years, remembering
fortress walls, turned to dust
the sun retired, acquiescence to the moon,
returning
over and over and over
the passion play plays out
comings and goings...
the beauty never fading
breasts, as pure cream, smooth and sweet
pretty vulva, unchanging, fat and laced with blood
pulsating down through centuries
belly, soft, nurturing, sleek and ripened
and only the eyes, aged
old and wary, yet
remembering...
walls to dust
dust to brick
brick to wall
wall to dust
over and over and over...
the passion play plays out
in her aged eyes
fat and sleek, engorged with blood
receptive