Let the music play

If we could put it to music
it would be your fingers
on my fine tunes,

my lyrics
finding you
in chords that could not exist
before this night.

We choose staying in,
underneath a thick haze
of purple and green.
Your eyes try to match me;
our deepest rhythms
sinking,
flowing,
dancing

naturally. We slip back –
your tongue laced with black
magic –
and I,

knee deep in daydream,
wrapped up in
this dimension,
several chords playing,
all of them in key.

Gripping to the cadence,
dripping with luxury,
we summon our past lives

we consult the angels
of mercy

and forgive every sinner
who ever has sinned.

This is our music.
Saturday night flat –
my bottle of Jack,
your smoke gliding
down my deep
throat

Like clockwork
here we go.

It’s A White Night

It’s a white night
in a white gown,
lights are dancing in
black windowsills.

In an instant, I’m a crowd;
an infant fevering
for heavy music to sing.
My prison is cumulonimbus.

La la la la la.
The opera is inside of me.
Look inside, there’s
a phantom cradling a breeze.

I will become
a storm under white sheets.
Waiting to be swept up,
my weak field,
my broken wheat.

I see your
Tropic of Cancer
and how tumorous you can be
but I will be
better than the whiteness
that is surviving me.

At that time
I will sow the sound
of wind chimes
over lullabies.

Mozart will come sit with me
about your layers –
we won’t need them,
words don’t mean anything
after you have seen

how beautiful the whiteness
can be.

Blue Notes Ready

Blue notes ready
get the fumes ready
we’re going to spread this
wild.

City streets rain down
pistol shots
whiskey shots
wake me up, I’m just a
child.

Sell me back to classical keys
the ones that leave
fire in oxygen.
Your spirit still sits
in your acoustic strings.

Baby, I could see a future of missing
your blue river running
wildly over
everything.
Don’t tempt the flames
they’re easier than Spring.
We’re going to spread this wilder
than fire.

The Death Of Aaron James

The
cello is a thick, heavy syllable
crying against the shoulder of
a thin woman,

a road of auburn hair trailing down her
spine. She understands value.

Prose is never numb,
it spans across nerves
playing emotions with finger

tips of red wood.
You brought Lydia to me
at twenty-five,
she dripped into my sleep
and led me
on a journey.

For you, she was a symptom of
something incurable. She opened my throat,
expanding me and you
suffocated.

The cello smiles with wide fingers,
thick like its soul.
Lydia takes me on a piano ride
in red wood snow where prose
grows and grows and grows.

Blood – In This Moment

I know you know what I mean…..

Requiem

Lindsey, in perfect fifths,
let’s shatter the veil
between worlds.

The universe is sold out,
but your bridge is precise
and the dead watch your maple
neckline

while I anesthetize myself
in words.

Your snakewood grows on dried gut,
I am glued to paper –

We are limited in time;
in stranded worlds.
Let’s shatter the veil
and bring them together.

Hear You Me

Here is something pretty for my followers today. If you’re feeling sad, grateful, hopeful, or wanting….XOXO ~ MM

Orchestra

Sunlight spills out over the sky
and I watch the women dance,
strings from Heaven attached to each limb,
red lips painted with French curls,

I love them so much.
I loathe them so much.

They lift off the ground with majestic beauty,
gliding from toe to toe.
They seem to sleep on clouds,
pretty ballerinas that Pas
around town.

In the library, they seat quiet children
who are stainless and educated from
high value,

they swim in holy water with
moulded figures sticking out and I drool
along with the men,

and I love them so much.
Oh! I loathe them so much.

They fall like pink snowflakes,
kissed with Latter Day sprinkles,
the daughters of God who walk on Earth
next to me, searching for my palms,
serving me with the grace that Sunday could bring
but I will not listen.

I cannot.
My ears have been cut from my head by
Van Gogh’s paint strokes,
Mozart is pounding his fingers against my
chest in C-Minor, and
all of the words that have ever been written
by limbless men
and lipless women
sing as a group of cellos,
rooted deep in my naval,
where I began.

There Is One Song

There is a song, just one,
that brings him to me.
It rolls in slowly,
a drum beats lowly,
a repetitive wave that wraps
his thick arms around me,

piano keys move softly, light
fingers that grip my arms, pulling
me on to his warm chest.

She raises her golden voice to
dim candle light, our bodies braided
in shadow on his impenetrable walls.

My heart beats in my toes,
my fingertips,
I am nothing but pulse as he grazes
me with his full lips,

the piano keys surge,
the drums urge him to sink deep
within me,

her voice becomes the  angel of depth.
I shed my skin before him, an offering;
begging him to belong
to the music forever.

My heart beat follows
his fingertips outlining my sleek design,
my breath, taken by his touch,
the piano drips between my thighs,
his blue eyes recite the sky,
his honest promise.

The drum beats slow,
the piano keys gather his warm
body, his lips, his touch and
leave me alone with all the words I
want to say,

but my voice cannot reach over this song.

When You Come In Three’s

I have more than I am worth
when you come in three’s .
I sleep like a fish on a hook,

but only on the outside.
Inside, I am writhing with
want,
need,
gripping my thighs on to everything.

It has been one year and a hundred days
since I saw your fingertips
but I keep that to myself.
Time has stolen us longer before.
Remember?

Remember those black days?
Remember cigarette ash stains at the bottom of
beer cans, while a thin man drummed
and you drove us away?

We never went anywhere, but to sleep.
I took the backseat
while you drove off into distance,
into caves.
When I awoke, I found myself alone,
but I found myself,

and you,
came back to me in three.
Your fingertips teasing me while I sleep,
like a fish on a hook.
Outside, but
you are in.