stones

stones press prayerward

under foot; bare sky trodden; moss

skinned to the roof of mouths seeking

housing; paint begs a decanting of

its bleeding;secular eyes wordless reads

through scraps of hunger: Encounter.

*

invisible inks spill

unshaven thoughts over head; trodden

earth skinned bare, moss seeking tongues

bled of its decantered housing, begs of

wordless paint; in  -articulations read

hunger of  invisible stones. Evaporate.

*

apostrophe apostrophé,denouement

art of ruins in the tide of times: pressedmoss

trodden paint prayerward seeking mouths of

their decantered sky; bled read thoughts over

under articulations afoot. Secular eyes speculate

invisible encounters among evaporations. Stones.

 

My Skin Is Your Garden. . .

Soft the till of touch

that unearths her flight..

Memories

Paintings by Jack Vettriano

The dance of dusk high heeled sunset into

tall stems of iced vodka and lime; the linoleum

and leatherette wished She were his to steer

through the sheets of Sunday’s rain, to hug

the sheer of pelt and inhale the smokey blue of

Bedroom eyes as if delight were the chateau

of oriental rooms between her thighs. . .

and into a  rendezvous with a poem or two

savage

from the savage of air

to the soft wrist of glamour

the wild shrill of Pale shadowed

her dance into the weeping of rich hatreds

amidst banquets of skies

where laughter fell to vocal trees

stirring the anguish of me;

the straight grey of my building bandaged

to the quiver of sad masquerades, the half

light of its deep, hidden in lust and blue evenings.

The hollow sea wore its white brim of silence;

a hat left to the cold marble sand in soft, beguiling

descents of careless lips in praise

of human hearts and submissive hips.

Along the dim of your room

a memory crept amassing moths

to the tenderness, and stray fingertips

undid your name and wept

for eddying, to all that fell,was the caress of weeping.

In the witchery,

lay dreams stirred the essence

of skin into prayers of myrrh . . .

less . . .

You reach a deep I cannot fathom

Shakes me loose from all I am

I feel with scorching leftovers

cindered underfoot.

Would you reach into me less

that I might breathe in breathlessness

I may wake and know what  to make of

this skinless ness … And a different

dark awakening in me.

love is . . .

Spurred by the ease of skin in ink

her fingers line his surface: the writ

compelled by the interior of stone.

Among the lives of pages a stir of slow

blends her subtle refuge of mythical bliss

with jokes and the deadening of graves.

Mourners weep into the sunrise; a melting

of dreams to the knowledge of light.

Compel me to write beyond this plane of gods

and little things, where pigment eases reluctance

and figments play ‘Imagination’.

Martha Argerich plays Prokofiev toccata

The dazzle

of her Babylonian mind gathers to her enclosure

his ink of longing, bowled into primary

nouns and vowel’d down pewter tongues.

Terracotta suns gaze immobile over her snug

courtyard: Copper deities  drool peroxide rain.

Ravens covet the skirting of her mind.

It is within her salt that love groped

gorgeous, the grass, into her deeper green.

She turned upward to the pelt of sky and of its

Hesperus pool, she begged the quench, never

to die from her thirst of stars

On Writer’s Block