"l find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey." Lord Byron


POEM 1

Your hair hosts a reckless rose 
That cannot disguise 
The blue stance of unflinching eyes
Beneath a red imperial 
There are mines pinned in your throat
That make you more 
Than a handsome construction
And I am weighted 
In the advantage
To recognize you without name 
It is in the way 
You wring your hands 
Without letting go 
And the way I return 
To settle on your wrist

The day is laid by age
At each year's thieving foot
And I wonder what it was 
To have been that time 
To be called one amongst 
All your moments
To have known my skill 
Would not suffice 
As not even the fullness of Autumn
Would be large enough
For the broad reach or the sweeping lung
Of  adoration's feathered branches
Or the hours that now belong to us


POEM 2

The saints had an alibi 
Morning came harnessed in gray 
The shadows toiled 
In the silky shades of the pediment
That told the story of intervals 
And I would sit in amurotic disposition
That would befit the privilege 
In the decree of fates 
And I will enthrone my Valentine
As the gods would not be swift or revealing


POEM 3

I thought I might have been an insipid flower
The way I had grasped earth
Maybe the dainty nature of my potency
Had been rooted in the apathy of strict gardens

Until I found him sipping from my lap

I had a tongue that
Moved with a habit towards fever
And he asked where have I been
It circled inside me
And I felt a damp wind
As his deliberate stare
Would sink into my answer

In the rise of our centric brow
We conceive reason and forecast heart
Lead by the wish of a vain obedience
And I return him to virile hinges
Only to be recovered at the end of his bones
As he pleats my sloped petals to bed in their fall

I trace his lines of pulse
And soak in the restrained caskets
In the muscle of his ark
And I am full
His legs are part museum
And I know I have traveled with him

He shows me that we are the stain
In the blue of hallowed land
But it is not a prurient debt that preserves us
As he is more than the tinge of wanting skin
That wraps a starved grip
And I am more than the dissolve of appetite
In the circuit of my limbs

The yawning drapes of our pasts
Reserve their stretch to accommodate
The dated thrusts of punishing intervals
That layer the day forward
And we become the burn and pale
Of each inevitable dawn
As to not be webbed in our ghosts

He kisses me into where I am not
He is half war of altered pace
That is the wet rust of gentlemen
And half absolution of the harsh venus
That drinks from my hands
He is in all of me

And we are a simple body.



Infatuation with Language

The pleasant way
words roll off tongue,
such eloquent expression
the nuances of vocabulary

charisma of orator,
singer and scribe,
instills curiosity
for inquisition

clasping bound pages
between hands,
the enticement
of a well-told tale

enamored by
the obscure allure
of imagination,
engaged in the winding
staircase of a story, 
suspense pumping
through my veins,
plot pulling me in close

edified by
the rich elements
embedded in thesis
in theory
in linguistics.


Re//Generate

A fallen tree
uprooted.
Out of the husk,
a new offshoot
regenerates.
An amalgam of
past and present
integrate into
new cycles.
Sustainability equals love.

 

Spectrum

I swoon,
dizzy,
in your presence

brilliance
floods my blood
shouting electric

each color
splits
kaleidoscopic.










Soft Hands and Purpose

I breathe in and out, 
a deep and harsh ringing
A tide crashing and receding
I say Come here to me
Touch you again with 
soft hands and purpose
I make you shiver
I need to
You make me sigh
Pleasure in my blood
This lasts
Until we can't anymore
(And then again) 
(And again)


Tender

I wish I could go back and tell you to be gentle with my heart
I don't always show how cracked and broken it's come to be 
Pasted back together with salty tears and resignation
I appear numb, so often, I know that disappointed you, it disappoints me too but I remember that feeling numb is better than feeling perpetual devastation and I hoped you'd understand 
So I wish I could go back and explain, perhaps I didn't explain enough, talk enough, share enough 
I wish I could go back and explain how tender I am, how tender my heart is
How even though it's hard for me to show it, I do feel so much inside and it overwhelms me and overflows and instead of looking like a lot, it looks like nothing
And maybe that hurt you, and for that I'm sorry
But I wasn't ever closed off, I need you to know
My heart was open, it was just tender
But now you're gone and I can't say that anymore 
I'm not trying to close it off but it hurts, it aches so
And I don't know how to protect it, it's shattered and fragile
It beats for you, and won't ever stop
I'll bandage it up again, glue it back together with more tears and more resignation
Accepting that it can't have what it wants
I should have told you, made you see
My heart is tender

Cross stitch

Someone cross stitched my heart and 
I feel the needle poking even still
Little pinches, little burns, little stings
Memories of each piece of sorrow
I thought at first it was a kindness, 
(a nursing back to health)
But before long I realized 
it was a morbid kind of art
A design sewn into the deepest part of me
A permanence, a promise
That this heart was changed once, 
or twice, (or more)
And will never be pure again


Champagne Tears

Sardonic marrow devours anguish,
destitute emotions have no ambition,

a vintage Huitième, Moët et Chandon champagne bottle
filled to the brim with a fortnight's worth of tears:

desperation brought me to one thought - death!
A genuine soul I could not find in these masques.

Frightened of the fate Clotho bestowed
an existence spun of isolation & despair -

I extend my arms to an ethereal presence:
a zephyr's whirl & brush was all I felt.

The passage of day, brought the new light of time
sealed inside the bottle. My Pandora

sailed the oceans in my hollow vessel.
At low tide, you find me listless - with a faint pulse,

cold pruned fingers clutching my tears, a puzzle
in my memory: How did I know you?

Immense comfort in your gaze, adoration
in your caress: Clotho deceived me.

I found my shattered essence nourished in your care.
On your island of bright, multi-coloured hibiscus

we partake in a crimson marriage ceremony.
With a sharpened blade you slice my hand as I yours.

Sicilian kisses & faded sunsets we unite.
With the second fate, Lachesis grace, we shall receive

a slight movement. Outstretched, our feathers
took flight through the cotton-sheen stratus,

our discarded shells lost to the sea.
As for the last inevitable fate, Atropos,

our woven thread will be severed in turn
When the last grain of sand falls.

Exploration

Black river, pure dead pitch
one exception - Luna's brilliant
recluse tangerine light searches
for the sand-grated ivory shore.

Thoughts of desolation ravage
until the breath of evidence and
acceptance, relish, honour & cherish
the truth about your character.

Born before, to a constant struggle,
dive to find a hollow cave in the abyss -
that will grant eternal peace.
A muse for eternity
fought the battles of men,
swam with white killer sharks,
gave genesis to other civilizations,
endured the ache of rejection:

All to find me.
The corkscrew, sardonic fashioned
broken-winged being masquerades
as a mortal - leaves one visible mark:
to my credit, tattooed angel
wings on my back!

Darling's

Bohemian imprints of crystal zephyr-laced nights,
wild fantasies materialize as I awake. I am not
of this universe. Emotions ravage my essence,
consume my cerebral cortex. I surrender to your
eternal grace. A man, Deimos, who once resided
in-between Saturn’s rings, a glorious mystic, seeker
of the truth, discovered my ethereal elements hidden

in an ordinary chunk of coal waiting to be excavated
in the secret caves of the planet Venus. Black, chalky:
they plead not to be cracked & polished Deimos
took me in his linen-textured hands for one of his latest
pieces. An artist, commissioned by the Crystal Queen
herself, requesting an engagement gift for her son's new
bride-to-be. Deimos, without the knowledge that he

had indeed captured my soul, began to mould & polish
his creation. Slowly he discovered little drops started
to fall on the cobblestone ground of his studio. Water
from the polisher, blended with the chalk from the coal
began to turn into tears. Little drops landed all over the
floor, stuck in tiny crevices. Curious, Deimos stopped
and began picking these little morsels up one & a time.

He lay them all down on the table and, surprisingly, this
is what he had found: 2 pairs of fossil stone, one slightly
longer than the other, with a nub in the middle; 10 oval
pieces of bloodstone;10 round pieces of Alexandrite; 2
pieces of Onyx & Jade; 1 piece of each Sapphire and
Serpentine; the final & most crucial piece, a large rounded
square shaped of Malachite. Annoyance more than interest

had over-whelmed him. Deimos could not offer this work
to the Queen, he had to travel back to the caves in order to
obtain another piece for the betrothed. Deimos' frustration
turned to tears; delirious from his nights work, one tear fell
on these precious stones. One by one, stone by stone, they
had begun to take form. What he had found was me:

Aeolian, naked & frightened. One glance & my inner
core could feel that his heart beat in unison with mine.

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