Archive for November, 2008

A Little Orgasmic Song

Monday, November 17th, 2008

The song, the little song I sing tonight
comes back to life as easily as touch.
It fills my mouth and as I try to write,
it tells me once again I try too much.
I laugh and drop my paper and my pen,
surrender to the rhythm of her hair,
control my urge to sing, but sing, and then
in joy, enjoy her echoes everywhere.
The rumpled sheets express chaotic notes
which smooth as they transcend our falling flesh.
Originating in our human throats,
our songs become angelic, inter-mesh
like bodies in a symphony of life,
like lovers once again as man and wife.

Private Dancer

Sunday, November 16th, 2008

My private dancer, painted like a whore,
transforms herself (I think) for my delight;
in shades of red she’s polished, showing more
reflections of a drunken starry night.
She writhes herself into a sudden dream;
her skin is twisted tightly like a wire.
My touch releases laughter and a scream
that rises to a pitch of fevered fire.
She pulls me in so close I smell the paint,
still wet as dew and subtle as a mink.
She wears her rut as proudly as a saint
for my delight, transfigured with a wink.
My mind is dark and she becomes the light
that flickers in my private neon light.

A Pretty Shoplifter in Psychosis

Saturday, November 15th, 2008

I do not sing, but I will smile at you
as we pass by in solitary trance.
I’ve stolen something pretty, something blue.
You passed me by; you steal a second glance.
I feel you turn and wonder why my lips
are thin and dark, and why my face is drawn
so tightly.  There’s a little girls that skips
within my soul.  My soul is almost gone.
They’ll bury it some more with pills and spells
the way I push my prize beneath my dress.
But first they’ll cuff the bitch that always tells
on me.  I’m pretty; she’s a fucking mess!
You think my eyes are pretty, I can hear
the way you kiss them as I disappear.

(more…)

On Waking to Your Lover From a Dream of Your Lover

Thursday, November 13th, 2008

You rise too late; the dream will dissipate
while you uncross and cross your waking legs.
Your heartbeat and your breath are both too late
to make the ghostly solid while she begs
in wisps of words, your soul’s own memory
of sex between the thinnest of your sheets.
Unspoken, still you hear her ghostly plea
and waking, hope tonight the dream repeats.
Although you know it isn’t just a dream
you wait. Too late, your life will dissipate
and living death will be the death it seems.
Your heartbeat dreams and breath will soon abate,
while you untangle all your waking dreams,
and there she’ll be, exactly as she seems.

Vampire Sonnet

Wednesday, November 12th, 2008

Tonight I die; tonight I am reborn,
an ancient rite of power, lust and grace.
Tonight I die by ancient secrets sworn;
tonight I am reborn to seek her face.
The moon obscures my thoughts with thoughts of blood
that pulses through the beauty of her heart.
The moon pulls every ebbing tide to flood,
and lovers pulled too violently apart.
The curse of separation is the death
of beauty hidden in the light of day
which waits for night to draw its living breath
and watches as the veil is stripped away.
She bares her perfect breast, her neck, her soul,
surrenders death and life to my control.

-for the Full Moon, and the coming of Twilight

Soft Morning

Wednesday, November 12th, 2008

You’re soft today in shades of morning’s kiss,
as soft as lying next to morning’s skin.
Inside the dawn of morning’s love in this—
this radiance of silk you softly spin.
And warm, my god, I feel the warmth of you
upon my soul, like heaven in your touch.
My memories of warmth, completely new,
convinced that warmth has never warmed so much.
To look this close into your waking eyes,
is more than I could ever dream at night—
the wispy morning blues of morning skies
that brighten like the blue of day’s delight.
And somewhere in the reverie of dawn
there’s music in a voice that lingers on.

Another Obscure Metaphor of Your Leaving

Tuesday, November 11th, 2008

Two steps into the unforgiving lake
I find my breath is stripped like naked skin
which shivers for the soul of warmth, the sake
of cold November waters found within
the warmth of early autumn in the lee
of winter, just beyond the fading hills,
like fading memories of you and me;
the shock of frigid water only kills
naiveté exposed by ignorance.
The comfort of my writing chair is not
the comfort I expected from this chance
confusion of the cold. It’s warmth I sought.
Again, it seems I’m waiting for the spring
to take away this bitter autumn sting.

How I Die Each Night When We Are Apart

Sunday, November 9th, 2008

In time the day subsides without relief;
it merely moves from light to gray to dark.
These grimy windows of my disbelief
pull shades of doubt to hide my human spark.
The sleep of death, the death of sleep, the dream
that waits regardless of ontology
plays out in what it is, not what it seems.
My question: not to be or not to be?
These eyes have been deprived of what they seek,
directed by my mind, my heart, my soul:
deprived by deprivations so unique
that nothingness would be a lofty goal.
In short, the day has passed devoid of grace;
once more I’ve missed the beauty of your face.

Fading Blue

Friday, November 7th, 2008

Oh doll, I whisper, holding up your dress;
it whispers nothing back in faded blue.
My hands are full of woven emptiness;
my memories are empty, filled with you.
Oh doll, I sigh; I’m thin and getting cold.
I warm the faded blue with sobbing breath.
Are you still young?  Am I still growing old?
My questions wear the fabric of your death.
The air is filled with orange shafts of light;
I’ve woken up ten thousand frozen motes.
The frigid day becomes a bitter night
which fails the symbolism it denotes.
Oh doll, I cry, and stain your dress with tears.
What more of faded blue? How many years?

Lost Again

Friday, November 7th, 2008

I have no hope; I only have a dull
and pulsing pain that thinks it is my heart.
Between each tear that falls, a sullen lull
expands before a reverie can start.
The spine of my emotions has been cut;
I’m paralyzed: no joy, no love, no hate.
I sense the coming atrophy of what
was once my life: too soon, too much, too late.
I don’t believe in angels anymore.
The songs I hear are shrill and out of tune.
Perhaps they’re demons raging at my door;
my soul is theirs: too late, too much, too soon.
What flame will they employ when they have crossed
the threshold of my life where I am lost?

This sonnet is a follow-on to one written previously entitled Lost–Call To An Angel