Springtime bends the
hibiscus and sweetens the
night where there is no weight
in air or flowers or the fire of
Chameleon lovers.
Negril
In the apathetic silence between each wave every sound expands, the stars come alive and the wind echoes as soft as a poem. You, laid back in the moon light, nude but for my shadow across your shoulders. In your hand a sweating glass of rum, its swirl keeps perfect time to the far off sound of Coltrane. I need to look away from your gun powder blue eyes, the moon’s lethal shot, before my eyes betray the flight of a thousand fluttering moths in my belly. So I breath the circlets of smoke from your cigarette and the sweet scent of willing hostages naked and bare boned. Our hearts, fragile as fireflies, escape in to the madness of our minds where all we need to do is live.
Liliana Gigovic
woman waiting
Lips wet with mist, the breeze of a kiss,
water grass sweeping through diaphanous dreams.
The strains of a sonata stream,
rivers of veins filled with bloods wildness
a song blue playing with fire.
Tongues of lovers burn with allegory
celestial walls of silence.
Hear the firewood snap and hiss
the burning heat of need.
Has her awakening come to late?
Art by Liu
Unbeknownst to me this poem was picked up in October and published at Bon Bon Lifestyle Webazine. Thank you Bon Bon Lifestyle, and thank you Jonathan for letting me know.
woman waiting — House of Heart
Summer with Burroughs
Remember the summer
we were obsessed with Burroughs?
Anything familiar like the sound of far off
thunder close enough to subdue the mad-paced
hours. Something inciting, a strike of lightning.
The scent of combustion ready to ignite.
Everything electric that made us come alive.
Our hearts caught between whale song and sigh
spontaneous thunder and intermittent quiet
Sporadic as a summer storm.
Leonid Afremov “Rains Rustle”
the breathing air
I wait expectantly for your
your thoughts to wing theiir of adventure
to the flicker of my heart.
My own disassembles like folds of
Silken threads webbed in purple indigo. where our names are webbed
Our words are rare as rice paper origami of rice paper
Sewn with slivers of sun drenched feathers that echo
Out to sea and back in again until the end for we are more than an
epoch of bones but the setting of a summer sunset
in your colors.
My blood is this crimson rushing through your veins when we make love
As though we are the only lovers the breathing air where we make love
as though we are the only lovers,
as gentle or fierce as the press of your
thighs on mine.
she doesn’t speak french
On sleepless nights
I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels,
My eyelids heavy with sparkling glitter.
Among the art I find you, your aura
travels through my veins ,
settles in the pool of my heart.
soft lights flicker their last warning in our dark cafe where like willows we sway to lost songs.
Suddenly you are gone, my Modigliani reclining never hearing my sigh
Je t’aime, the only French I know.
Mark Spain Art
unruly lover
For you I will be
the sun who shines
without expectation,
a breeze that shapes soft
passages when you travel
uncertainty.
Let me be your madness
that sets desire in motion,
the moon pulling tides
drawing you closer.
When my words fail
my body will speak for me.
Of air and flight, strung of stars,
let me be the light you
return to.
