a blue bird twines
of wire
where sunflowers grow
your air is twisted
like she
unthawed
in your
affection
an aroma far
from lonely
i find dizziness
underneath
liquor
we are empty
never simultaneously
the glass is warped
i’ve stood here forever
waiting
for the
freeze to pass
Helios in
a winter solstice
unconquered
I am fire and light
come to me
this does not belong
in a book
or on paper
it should be
blazing across
each existential universe
your immaculate
humility stumbles
my gesture
bathe me in
every movement
that has made
you a man
every echo
is wild
pulsating
carnal
I am
Your moth-cloud dreams in,
we went up like soot,
soaked in gasoline.
Yesterday’s thick ejaculation
mixed with a bundle of
memories,
take me,
tell me!
Every day, the body gives up the ghost,
sui juris. Take me!
White purse.
Sweet essence under strange sheets.
Your cotton terrorizes me.
I wrap long, and split,
I’m weak,
I’m weak.
One day grows under soil,
feeding on a seed.
Where the Earth wants to plants us,
we harvest what we reap…
and clouds speak in tongue,
a simple, little speech.
I know I’ve begged before,
but take me.
Take me!!
just the beginning,
slithers off wet lips with charm.
Mockingbirds use many tongues
to sing of slick footprints
stepping in,
stepping out.
At first blush they call,
crested blue, aggressive;
wild for the North,
where dragon fruit merges with devotion;
where I found his name.
We spread together as far as Summer could take us
until we melted into sunspots at the edge of the Earth,
high desert heat drying out our love.
Later, we flew south in high, asthmatic screams;
nocturnal – fugitive.
It is never the first time.
It is never the last.
His after tastes like a razor blade,
but I am a glutton and I cannot
let go of his name.
Were you, yourself, a stranger with no clear account of his dying?
An accident crowned that day.
A ticket arrived, golden and hollow,
at his bedside.
He laughed.
He board a ship in the morning
that carried no heartbeat
or skin.
I think this is all we talk about.
A mad voyage where listeners were
not, until now.
And were we strange to his fable, with his legs up on the couch?
I should say to him, I am not.
There are two bodies I know,
inside and out.
I fasten their heads together in knots around my chest
on my own mad voyage that carries no heart,
or beat,
or spirit
that is strange to his hand on my shoulder, softly at rest from the world.
I bend easy, like a willow, swaying in
every direction, never favoring
East over West. I am hungry for
all direction, feasting on the luxurious winds
that pick me up and carry me from the storms of
inexperience to the gentle breeze of wisdom.
Though, I snap as sharp as winter pea
skin, frost bitten by the breath of the season
when they try to take me.
They say I belong with them in the East, where
the sun rises just to shine its Gold on me.
They say I belong to the West and
the colours of their underground sunsets.
Some say I belong for them to share,
for them to grant my freedom,
and they do not understand that I belong
only to the wind.
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.
As sincerely,
as satisfied
as a secret lady can be.
It is nearly one miracle.
A passion!
A failed art with reflection;
manner.
A poor woman ordinarily has little shame,
but she comes with
red knuckles
and
sensible shoes.
She holds secret meetings
with passionate things.
Strawberries.
Wine.
Artists. A learned taste.
A hushed taste for her.
I see women walk over her. In stiletto’s.
Teal designer hand bags dangling
from rich, white chocolate
perfection.
Proper uniform.
What a proper tragedy!
pink goblets glisten
champagne damp kissing
deep pipes slip in
twisting crimson blushing brides
swollen shifting tides
blue sighs
high rise capstone
twin torrid moans
softens impaling trombone
milk cream weeps
sweet flowers sleep.
The top of the stairs is a lonely
place to
sit
buttoned up
blotted out
a
human splotch spying
on a beautiful
dance
her name is dusty
a cryptogram
enticing
men of solution
to
descend
she extends a maze with her hand
he reaches
to
her
one touch
a crushing warmth
he
enters a
twisted, bending, twirling
riddle
at the bottom of the stairs
from the bottom
of a
casual heart
where dusk sways
in
out
entangling him into her
crafty dance
maggiemaeijustsaythis 