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

Residue

Sliver tongued,
he, of turbine mind
reels her in: Residue.
concubine of words
tonguetied to the Warhol Ark
-unfettered mind from his
clandestine tongue. His mouth
Pivot. the nylon yards
clingpress her into reprisals
and castigations in Paerie ink
penumbras of manicured savagery
Sonic. edging the Jesuslope
to slipstream shod to the taste
of stains; lovelong tongue
of rubber gloved Narratives.
normative plasticities like
sailboats on nude beaches.
Indigent Extractions: invoiced
mouths in underwear of carnal
logistics. Interior to the design
of Her to your liminal sublimities
Feed Me.

Johnny go lightly…

Johnny go lightly

for her day was born raw

tread the boards of her with love

for the desecration of trees

beneath you feet are deeply sprung by

the brilliance of words and their actors.

Johnny go lightly

so as not to tear her paper rain

where drops trickle you into the

proscenium of her skin and  you

are the fall of her last curtain call

Johnny go lightly

among the tall grass of her hurt

hidden to the bare room of fictions

hinged to soft mysteries in the salt

of her curve, varnished red offshore

to the growled distance of  hunger

mouthing for more

Johnny go lightly

into the pale of her deep

where you step midstream

into the estuarine flow of plainchant

her private  chansons after midnight

the pale carved alterpiece housed of his cloth

her crescent of porcelain to the dance of your moth

a flock of sparrows

fitting into neither

Parochial hearts sing hymnals to their sky: dark and drawn

of childless days and the end of play, growing by numbers

ignoring the pain. Inspectorates of song edge out whispers

from dreaming  leaving shadowless streets barren

of their stories. Dislocation loiters, keen as paint

to draw a picture of it for you: Could you understand

its birdsong? Yet for all the roads leading to Rome,we’d

stumble to find, remote from our common origins,

a Blind pontiff: abridged yet bridgeless to inner closure:

cul de sac of nostalgic displacement. so words fill the void

into the hollow uprooting of sparrow trees  and exile.

fitting into neither

written in blue ink across the dying edges of seasons; that tranquil

place of nightmares to the East of a Middin’s conflict

where Barren sands lament the loss of their dunes and

the crumbling of the desert, Sparrows flock to counter

the narrative of Time with songs of their memoirs.

Even the moon gives up its crescent. The years designate

the hour of goodbyes and memories begin to erase

that  place They called Jerusalem.

Fitting into neither

The walk of miracles speaks to naked ground of its inner blue

embedded spaces of smokey lineage. Sparrow sheds words

to a poet’s soaring of lean Inward migrations.

A flock winging an elegant world leave to the falling

a different her into a field of divinities:

occupations and illuminations. With every line he writes.

Infinity spirals essences mouthed of their breathing:

Her earth groans to your footprint; bared to the sweet of skin

fitting into neither

A parable of feathers; journeys  of nights fallen to its knees

begging she drink the ink of his sins. sparrow lit and spartan

to the jagged glimpse of its frozen centre; Intimate narratives

of him shape her of minor miracles. Calliope, dancer

in the ornamental gardens of Archilleion

To spread her wings, she spreads

her dreams beneath your feet…

the storm

She sings to the dark
to drink oblivion;
in losing her sense
to the storm,  she finds
her skin sung from
a singular tongue.

Eyes shed love
like breaths of testimony
to learn the un-learnable
of loving; unearthing ways
Desires be taken.
To pages bound of fragrances
the rhyme of words wraps
her skin; tongued by a softening
mortality into books of you and I.

Untying the ways
she’d want you, Ideas
of Desire, conjure desire,
desiringly … so you.

She folds
you into paper
pretending
we never invented
kissing.

six prisms of yin-yang

dedication: ご主人様  Go shujin-sama

1st Prism

Yin. she lingers hoping to taste

butterfly kisses of his mouth

shaped in his colours of poems.

Yang. Brushtipped

by your ardour, nothing more

poetic, butterflies adorn

the canvassed edges of you

within my pen, nothing less.

Yang.Beneath your waves

my heart is rising once again.

Yin.
 A tear,  precious dew held

in its palmed sea of you

my ocean revels

in such salted adoration.

Second Prism

Yang. Behind a veil, she paints desire

on my heart and soul; no words

were spoken, but the heart pours

its truth.

Yin. Against my skin

both ancient and new

the language of your touch


Yang. no stranger to darkness

here I am again lost in the folds

of your mystery.

Yin She would craft a page

of herself simply

to feel the breath of his artistry

against her skin.

Yang. Against my skin

both ancient and new

the language of your touch.

Third Prism

Yin. Each step shared become

Infinity…

Yin. Desire. dreams. landscapes

of heartskin. Your mind, palettes

a rainbow of hue; shimmering

the ink leading me into your shading.

Fourth Prism

Yang. Am I left beyond the bridge

like the ocean to lean into the vista

of a landscape undisclosed

to the colours waited upon by ink…?

Yin. Shall we make a kaleidoscope

of shattered mirrors and share light

beneath our feet…?

Yang. Rising

and falling, the night’s

song echoes

softly in my dreams.

Fifth Prism


Yin. He whispers

silently in the breeze,

thoughts carved

in invisible ink

Yang. Awash with her ink

the canvas

of my heart expands.

flushed by the hush;

Your gaze  wraps

my dreaming

in its deeper yearning.

Wings spread shaped

butterfly kisses of memories;

silken whispers

handmade

to palm their future.

Sixth Prism

Yang.


 Lotus sky flowers

to the brush

of his petalled dreaming: her

silken whispers

touch me

like no other…

Yin. to the skin wild grove,

she rose

calmed of the sky

to find charms

of willow

hung to strings

of play

YinYang. May days

unfold

of Organza; draping

inspiration

with an air of perfume

keeping its shape

held close and memorable . . .

On Writer’s Block