saudade

There is a need for
lips pressed the press
of hands seeking.

Here in my
straight back chair
hold back the firestorm
with your elegant hands
and with your lips
claim the hollow
at my throat.

Scatter  silk like
autumn leaves.
Allow me to fall
like  the ripe flesh
of sweet fruit.

 

artist: Lu Jianjun

You Can Tell Me

Tell me how you pass the hours.

That slanted smile,

does it hide shackles of pride

(I have mine too).

You are my obsession,

undulating sensations that

can’t be restrained.

What I know of you

I have learned  through osmosis,

the taste of ozone, like breathing air.

In worldly dreams I am wearing leather

waiting for you in a Parisian cafe.

Is there shame in what we  are compelled to do?  tell me

 

 

art by Michael Garmash

A black spell night

Drawn by possibility

I am at war with resistance,

A desperate allure of words

becoming flesh.

The tender momentum of hands

ignites a perfect fire  on taut  boughs of

willowy limbs  powerless   to undo a black

spell night.

Come dawn I am a periwinkle

at your pillow,   pale petals of desire

bending to what is golden.

 

 

innocensedawn at pinterest

 

Blue Bird

When I spread my wings

I can feel the pull of freedom.

I spread them wide and trail

my shadow the way birds do.

Your hands are elegant thieves

and your words a web of lies

that shine right through.

What is real or an illusion

in this desperate nest of chaos

where I found you?

When the veil falls apart and

the daylight slivers in  I can see

the slant of sky where you slipped in.

 

missing pieces

In this carapace
there is no room for life
where high windows open to emptiness.
Below the dark,  when I am dreaming,
searching for that missing piece to make
me whole I see us
disembodied desire among the reeds.
My shiver of eyes search for what we were
in the seas  dark murals where  when I
catch sight  I  Could se right through us.

Image

 

confessionals and currency

Sheer scarves cover

a bed side  lamp

as night slips in on tiger paws

the swaying beams of a velvet

moon drift through  veils  of lilac tulle

Her egg shell limbs are  caught

in binds, her breasts alert gazelles

she is the red of womanhood

her eyes the shade of currency

Her mind is  his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough

 

two bodies