(a man’s sobriety, will always be challenged by a woman; at least once)
Morning lit the blazing chalice...
Lung joy bringer
abandons law
and with informants,
keeps compulsory malice.
Daily though...
seeking to know the joy
In a life without herb...
To know what makes a man hold a medz
Without the cure that calms my nerves
In smoking chambers
By evening...
Leaving behind paraphrases of odd speech
scattered on the floor
parapharizzla...
the blur of a slurred word scrawled across the door...
...(the following 4 lines need explanation)
...........love with me...
..........................
I do not want u to................
I really don’t want u to be in...........
“...to the one that bosoms this line...
you smile like a scimitar to my heart.
your negative words
are a sweet interlude
to a steamy hurricane season...”
...could she know?
the way I resist,
like breathing,
her perfume...?
...the way I recreate the future of each spent moment
into unravelled reams of untamed overflow....
would she ever know my dream of her face in pleasured contort?
ever know the price my soul would pay
to consort gladly with the frustration
after waking from musing her?
“...sitting thinking hard
in your softness...
sitting sinking into complete adoration
for your everything...
...
dry well
creaking the wind through its handle
never knew that the coming days
were way too wet to handle...
to quilt patch our lives behind telephone...
Taming desire to its perfect distension...
one future and uncontrollable kiss
will burst us as Vesuvius riotously did.
I am hooked
and unable to remove it.
at night
when I relax
my heart comes pulsing
tiding flash smile floods
that tug me out to
a dual canoe carved from a single trunk
sitting...
waiting to chop our uncharted waves...
we overlapping like emotion and logic
travel our circumferences back to each other...
you
an intense flirt
with time
and in impassioned flings with caution...
leave no room in the inn for me.
your mortal Messiah.
..........................
Feb 14th. 2007
phone silent on desk
heart noisy in chest...
...writing my way across skin of paper...
I find it my only way to you....
cupid never granted me this.
It was your eyes...
it was the coil in me
the hesitated recovery from a butter flied moment.
It was then I knew it was good.
God smiled.
Dreams broke free to cold sweat my face.
Dream numero Uno.
dose, trece, catorce...
...by now you know...
...I am into you.
Days passing
bring laughing moments from stomachs depth
conversations curl and ferment...
at your Great Wall.
In reminiscence of the light that saved Saul
I sip the twinkle from your eye...
You think I stare
I think it is a miracle I don’t trip and fall.
Hearts connect at tangents,
but your bruised wit will not admit
that the bliss it makes believe could be true.
An honest man
standing on the mostly dishonest platform of love
……………………………………………………………………
To write myself into skin
to know how deep your sin is or thin.
.to work my way into your dreams
to figure out how your life in high heels feels.
.to resolve your soul osmotic
to understand how menstrual sways your mental
as too does moon tiding in belly
on count of nine
……………………………………………………………………
Unrequite...
When I die...
I want my ashes on her mantle.
I want my memory to only there be imbibed
lost nights in sheet gripping
I will oversee her to her end.
In love
normal is overrated anyway...
when I die,
what I own will be hers.
When I die I will want to rest in the darkness of her room.
But when I live
she does not love me.
How heavy are the clouds in my stomach
how sickened flashes of sheet in grip
glimpses of lips in trail of each other...
close-ups...
I can’t see faces...
but I know your lips
and those others are not mine
…………………………………………………………..
Uncontrolled.
Fingers uncontrol me,
into stanzas of you...
I dissolve on whiff...
Perfumed memories ebb
as does your skirts gaiting edge...
legs pumping my under rhythms,
I scatter myself slowly into you...
... gripping sweetness from your heaving...,
...breathing uncontrols you...
……………………………………………………..
Pursuit
Writing till my fingers pour a poem
I have lost the power of poet
to the higher source which I only funnel...
using a dull knife to pry poems
from the underside of bitten dirty nails
..........................
..........................
Longer lines I have never written in pursuit of ones attention
with cloud nine as a footstool, its easy to forget what else there is in life to do...
..........................
Note to mention: I am now naked of clichés and ready
for unidentified sexual within your hetero
to the very hilt of my swelling sword.
Lady disclaimer:
the prior statement is not necessarily the view of the poet
but common sense will tell u to pree him.
Venice
city walls...
that tamed the ocean.
Jericho
lady skin city falls
by me chanting.
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