Blasphemy

Browsing through souvenirs

I am reminded of you.

The door to the past swings open

releasing sleek eels of memories

where I am nothing or at best

a trembling leaf lost on a autumn breeze.

Do you ever think of me?

See me in constellations pressed against the sky,

hear me in the surge of the tide?

I would seek comfort in the moon but I am

so trivial and he is taken by the stars.

In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake

Hungrily flicking the skin of your thigh

curling around the catch in my throat.

He is god and has named me regret.

I close our door with pried fingers.

I’ve given up on prayer hands.

Art by Rita Hardy

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

black spell night

Drawn by the pull of possibility

I am at war with resistance,

the desperate allure of words

becoming flesh.

That tender momentum of hands

on taut shoulders gently soothing

a tangled bough of willowy knots

powerless to undo a black spell night.

You are kindle igniting the perfect fire.

In the calm of dawn I am a periwinkle

at your pillow,

pale petals of desire bending

to what is golden.

 

 

innocensedawn at pinterest

 

Night Life

From my  window   a sliver of  moon casts a haze over the water and I listen to the  rush of soft waves. Those  creatures beneath the depths,  do they sleep,  dream?  If  parted do they grieve?  Down the street  I can see  lights from  an all night store, a man stands behind the counter.  Cautiously he  slips his hand under his jacket and takes a long swig from a  bottle.   A group of young thugs gather outside the storefront.   I imagine them  harming the storekeeper.  Distracted by the young whore taking shelter in a doorway,  they laugh and whisper. Oblivious to her vulnerability she sleeps as though she has never heard of  birds of prey that swoop down with jagged talons hungry for butchery.   I watch closely in case I need to call out a warning  but losing interest they disappear into the dark.
Maybe nothing is real, maybe   everything I see and hear is all in my head.  I lose focus on my outside world and the burn of you stings relentlessly just below the surface.   I want to sleep forever not give a damn about you.  

 

 

 

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.

 

you see right through me

One would expect to flee this grey carapace

whose high window opens to emptiness.

Far out, below the sea, when I am dreaming

I see us in its whirling.

Filled with disembodied desire we swim among

love’s debris.

My shiver of  eyes search for what we were

in dark murals  where my mind is your confessional and no sin is grave enough

I am what remains and when I look at me,

I see right through us.

 

 

art by Guy Finlay “Letting Go”

confessionals and currency

A Sheer scarf covers the

lamp on the night stand

slivers of moon light slip though

the  French doors

reflecting off walls of burgundy

and  egg shell limbs caught

in loose binds.

She is the red of womanhood

her breasts alert gazelles

guileless eyes are  the shade of currency

her mind has become his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough

 

 

 

Autumn fruit

When I was just a shy girl

and you a blonde haired boy

we raced through wheat fields chasing.

Suddenly serious your adventurous

eyes  made me  shiver and your hands

stroked my body for no apparent reason.

I longed for your touch anytime and

kissed you open mouthed without permission.

I adored your mock anger when I hid away

and made you find me and the way you quickly

looked away when caught staring.

Autumn threw its shadow on sprouting

wheat  where we lay naked smooth and wet.

Now I always knock before I enter your

reading room and you softly close your book

and pull me to you fierce, tender,

and unafraid.

 Art by Rob Heffernan