sunshine

sunshine
in the tourbillion
of your eyes
i saw the one

"beware my flawless gyre
my flights are more penchant
than cyclone spawned"

not so the habitual
whirlpool experience.
call it prophetic
if you will:

property of listless form's
deference to celestial weather

"we are all
drowning after all"

first a subtle prickle

first a subtle prickle
needles through case

punctures armor
breaches mettle—
sheath
over silky smooth skin

strikes vital vessel
streaming qualm

darker than any
bewildering Stygian
twilight

doubt's trickle
transform to flow
oozing gel

later lichen
as banquet
for fast faltering faith

darling, this is how
waver spreads
Cimmerian

how argument is whittled
to fashion shadow-form
hair-trigger.

that

that
a single one
can

is sufficient
testament

beyond
argot

Flame for instance
is either
Love
or Brimstone

themselves often
analog.

take the power

This was inspired by Irene's "mystery" which she posted at her site "lost in translation".

It's more of a companion than a response (and as usual, mine's a bit blathery compared to her compact style, which I like, very much).

I invite you to visit and read her wonderful works there. As always, please introduce yourselves if there for the first time, say hello and drop her a line.



take the power
of Nature, for one

tempests when formed
are thought
pregnant

seeded by pairing
of Prospect and Woe
before landfall
churn
selecting tenor—

a gathering
storm

some shatter trees
bearing pretty flowers
others favor to leave us
alone

dumping
salty torrents
upon others
swiftly
flooding lawns—

assault
on bed of roses
grown
alongside
stoic homes

is this
why
Time swirls
in our minds
festooning Dreams—
why we cannot tell
how
Love comes
or disappears?

if a key
to this cipher
were to be found
the ache of not knowing
would surely be
Truth

that flickering
would have to be
Her

collared
in median Doubt
quivering
all the while

Determined.

i think ...

per le polveri di stelle

per le polveri di stelle
prese incidentalmente

rinascita
è inevitabile.

with manacle

with manacle

and halo

your brush pinks

my skin

you've been captive

long

my ghostly

tone

for ivory

stardust

incidentally taken

rebirth

is precisely

inevitable.

torpor

torpor
is murder
if administered
casually

its side effect:
suicide
of surviving host.

it's perilous

it's perilous
[to see you again] curved
as yours had been
crushed
face-to-face
with ones flaunting
like [luscious] lashes

familiar antics

victim
to hypnotics
[of their ogling]
over the years
i've been mesmerized
by countless others
with similar
eyes

duplicitous
tricksters & impostors
invariably
all that they've been
is [damned]
lookalikes

retraced
our maps
drawn in their ambers
crystalline reminders
of that twilight
when you said:

darling
[remember
i will never, ever
be leaving]

my breeze
in retrospect
i've often wondered
if that had indeed
been
in truest love
[was it?]

that wistful promise
if it was meant
to cover
this here
and now [could it?]

holding-on
to my end
of this golden braid
i ask again
my world
do you feel the same
[tugging] still?

drape me in teal

drape me in teal
my love
i require it
today
otherwise indigo
or something
parallel

allow me to glow
sapphire
for you
for blue's
o so elemental

monotone—
my torment
soul sacrifice
a probable
award—
another way
to say
finale

cobalt
or not
my soul
take note:
i may soon favor
periwinkle
over you

then
i shall
wither
to heather

[o so sentimental
& fucking predictable].

midnight’s gone (Shell)

Dear friends.

I invite you to visit and read a wonderful companion to my "there's plenty of coffee there" which Shell at forgetmenow has written and posted at her site, just the other day.

Her wonderful piece is entitled: "midnight’s gone" and can be found here.

As always, please introduce yourselves if there for the first time and don't forget to say hello.

there are remissions

there are remissions
of a certain kind, open to question:
stealthy sorties unlike military missions—
they are shrouded

just as a woven frock is plain
when accessorized only with winks
squints, lacking meaningful grain
or texture that is authentic

then again, earlier on
a line of Caesars raise their thumb
and Cleopatra cracks
a crafty smile—
she blinks Provencal
and you like it

their patois commands a trio
stilettos flung with abandon in three bangs
call the audience to attention
[a 'ten-hut or sorts]

most of them gasped
while one simply shattered
sentimental

later on, the headline read:
At the Forum
Something Wily
Today
One Dead for Certain.

devastations arrive

for T.

devastations arrive
in certain guises
take sunrises
for one

memory discharges
misty monsters

chimera in filigree
of tincture and shade
scurry for cover
to hide by day
they carry
paisley patterns
of her magnetic smiles

embossed
on pearly skin
evocative of carnival mask
blue lined designs of maidens
poised for song
appear in mirrored form

suddenly surprised
if soft brush with Teal
is tinged
obstacle beyond
some facile caveat

expounding
on the sway of hips
A Cappella, my divine valentine
a trance is more vagary
than that

while reveries
are simple matter
of degrees, tattooed
emblems on a heart
are somewhat
permanent.

there's plenty of coffee there

there's plenty of coffee there
and anxiety
blended-in
with the occasional
sense
of annex
which randomly
condenses
mostly between eleven
and two

but as vapors do
dissipates
in the reliable scalding
of mid-afternoon
when tumult flares
and its hissing swelter
wavers sprite—
temerity
transformed
into sallow
flow
dribbles
as though
forced
to piss
d
o
u
b
t
.


then
there's gloom
draped
in a luxuriant bedroom
invariably
parachutes
between midnight and light
vanishes
just before dawn
when jovial clock
with insipid grin
shudders
and
.c
...h
..i
.m
....e
..s


masquerading
as balance
between
is and was
for when glum spreads
thick
as Tooley does
that is when
recall and flashback
assault
aim
stage
melodrama
which always ends
abruptly
as frustrating as coarsely interrupted
rapture's orgasm
vexing and vague
as 70's era
cinema

but once again
there is plenty of coffee there
and although anxiety
is still blended-in
there is a sense
of pleasure
when the sanguine beating
of a single heart
reverberates
across an awesome

abysm
.
.
.
chasm

when syncopated
with its twin
why stopping
is fucking
impossible.

silence is slightly murder

silence is slightly murder
inflicted by prostrate counsel—

meeting convened at ruffian-vault:
oubliette, adorned for stabs
where harrow pockmarks & jolts concord.

discarded when mangled— she is
industrially finished. silk threads
skin and sutures purple lesion;

curtains rise and fall as doubt
scabs another tentative shell.

reticence is man-made condition
implanted by pith— a weathered man
with say and tart DNA that smacks
Machiavellian.

don't act surprised, my Gordian lover.
strictly speaking you were forewarned.

mine has an underbelly

mine has an underbelly
not the soft sort
a mollycoddled whore
might have
itself
an elevated post
deemed bestowed with fortune—
demanding much fawning
and fanfare

[akin to stardom there
where leisure is two winks
or a nod.
lavished with three squares
a tin shack
adorned by a single, red lamp
lit bloodshot, outside
every... single... night
a straw-bed inside to sleep on
after each routine, providential fuck
most of all for the few bucks
which she may tuck away
for a week's rent; that at month's end
she sends something home
is considered
luck]

mine
is scaled & rough
coarser still
like crocodile skin—
hide, which in and of itself
a curiosity
suitable for tanning;
a harvest from an ancient beast
splayed and skinned in an industrial line
on that scale

[slaughtered
closer to where it was grown
en-mass, on farms
run by firms flaunting logos
of tamarind trees
and palms]

guts and gore
tossed into the river
herself
grateful for that paltry bounty
for when the torrential floods arrive
she knows
she will churn it all
and cataract

[mixing-in the rest of the decay
along with red, volcanic mud
that she will carry the whole rotting lot
in torrents and froth
whitewater
careening down sheer facades
as she descends plateaus— furiously
ploughing at the fork]

engorging the entire watershed; it is her—
her gushing has always quenched a content;

despondent — ululates
for she knows the rains
which swell-up her veins like adders, are still
four, damned months hence

that from her perch, at a distance,
she can clearly see Alexandria
burning.

rarely

rarely
i love you


less-


than
i did
then [powered by doubt];
much


less


so now—
by far, my love [stubbornly rare— recovered].

poets lie in degrees

poets lie in degrees
especially when found 
to be prostrate. couched,
for instance: davenport
transforms into sleeper, 
may be guile, maybe fable, 
accordingly furnished.

now let me tell you
a spotty, little story: 

.......................
.......................
.......................
.................period

despair is lyrical. scaffold (1)

despair is lyrical. scaffold
for duet's concord;
ballad oozing dahlia,
fresh and warm

as will a poniard, pulled
swift across a palm, pool
ruby claret channeled within
a furrow, impelled intaglio.

roseate droplets must clot
to decorate rue and rent,
expressed in post-survivor
style, represent: pulse—

harmony diffused inchoate
as heart-song slightly tottered;
tempos remain faint, echo
vignettes interrupted

considered
somewhat too abrupt.

moppet, please don't forget my name (2)

moppet, please don't forget my name—
he writes:

"Remember: by hook or by crook
i'll be the last smudge in your book"
with one thumb dipped in extant blood, dabs a mark
in the form of a pair of falcons taking flight.

wing-tip to wing-tip, a length of golden strand
in between, clasped in desperate talons,
compelled by inaudible thrum of imminent storm,
flutter, distorting as they attempt to separate.

in the end, but a formative imprint (3)

in the end, but a formative print
now cross-faded like an analogue song

as memorialized on parallel sound-tracks—
cleaved-in original celluloid.

fully preserved
in a valise,

two, sealed aluminum cans
require curators' attention;

each with dusty, tawny labels
that read: Never Release.