What I’ve Become

You are my obsession

undulating waves of fixation

that can not be restrained.

What I know of you

I have learned through osmosis

the taste of ozone I  crave

like breathing air.

Beauty only knows to

be beautiful,  send me a

signal through the blackout.

Take  my hand and let

me land in your warmth

for I am shivering.

It is always raining here,

I am nothing but precipitation

slipping down your skin.

 

 

This is an entire album…you might want to stop it at 4:24.

Interlude

I sigh, light my cigarette and turn to you.

Within this dream  I propose let us fly away.

Your eyes so dark

whip my mind into arousal and your

rugged hand  on my  thigh makes me

soft inside and everywhere.

You whisper that my  hair so near

and my lips a crimson darkness devours you.

Against waves of joy and sadness dreams are

always what it could be like.

Suddenly hares chase foxes and Roebuck’s

hunt hunters and I bury my face in your

chest and you shield me within  bleak arms

to not  see the terror  and we fly away.

 

Related image

art by Babylon Premium

 

 

 

 

Islamorada

This morning  I threw wide
that carved door of souvenirs.
The scent of sandal wood
filled the air and  missing
you was a stone bruise.
Tonight  I will walk down
to the shore,  that galaxy
of pearls and tumbling  waves
of frothy champagne.
The mangroves are filled with
flickers and blooms and the
sky glimmers with silvery mirth.
I could stay here until Spring among
the  honey cake dunes and not think
of you at all.

 

renesoto

google art

 

forest song

Out here
I can hear the chatter of anxious birds. The wind and rain have shredded their nests. A sudden flight of wings fill wispy petals of clouds passing over.
Wandering further beneath the tall pines I hear their creaking branches stretch like old bones. Needing to be heard, the brittle crunch of leaves beneath my feet make their sound.
A White tail deer watches warily from a grassy knoll, his majestic antlers in silhouette against the splintered rays of sunset. My breath is but a whisper in this sacred place that offers everything and asks for nothing.

fantasy-forest.jpg

art by Lazada Philipine

The Sad Cafe

Autumn leaves have begun to fall.
Late October London is ablaze in hues of orange and purple.
On my bench by the river I daydream that I am an adolescent
reptile escaped from Kafka’s Die Verwanlung,
laid back basking in the sun.

The air is layered in heavy cologne but men don’t interest me now.
I am content to casually observe.
To my advantage I know all about them
while they know so little about me.

Thinking of you against my wishes, dying a little,
dead all the sweet hope of dreams never realized
I imagine my earthly body padded, sat beside yours on a grassy knoll
to breathe in the scent of lilac and the mossy green River Delta.

In the dark I am nude but for a shadow across my torso.
You are so near and to distract my self from this burning desire
I let my thoughts linger among the lines of Roethe’s “In A Dark Time”.

Years pass and by chance we meet at the sad cafe. I sway in your arms like a fragile birch in an autumn tempest. The halo of my eyes glisten recalling how we gave away what we never really had. We hold each other knowing that love has died and we with it.

“Sweet Bird”

After you left I ran along the shoreline past the jetties and scattered surfers hoping to catch the last waves. A haze veiled the shore and vanished in the rain. Fat globules of salt encrusted my eyelids and each breath ripped upward from my belly tearing through my lungs. I sank down on the damp sand behind the old seafood restaurant. Guttural sounds mutating to unearthly howls carried out across the waves. I waited there until they dissolved into the sea.

The sky is always blue and the ocean is frothy meringue not a murky sea where in heavy boots you wade past that place where you lose your grip. Your eyes and throat sting with the rush of saltwater, screams fill your brain but not the air. Sea gulls swoop and squawk, perfect black angles against the sunlight. I open my book by Tennessee Williams whose writing I abhor but the edge of its cover was leaning out as I passed the bookcase, Sweet Bird of Youth.

She’s Not A Lady

Winter does not empathize
with withered branches or
displaced birds fleeing waves
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen flicker
at the curve of billowed thighs
glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs ensnared
in her exquisite binds.

Silence--by-Karol-Bak[1]

art by Karol Bak