Those who dream by night in rusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find it vanity. Dreamers of the day are dangerous for they may act on their dreams with open eyes. T.E. Lawrence – Seven Pillars of Wisdom
I turn to you in this dream,
light my cigarette from the glowing
tip of your own.
I propose we fly away.
We sip red wine and slip
into a bluer state where
along a dark corridor with high
windows we sway within
our satin dream.
Your dark eyes whip my mind
into arousal and your elegant hand
caressing the length of my thigh
turns me soft inside.
Your breath is a sigh at my ear that
whispers my hair and crimson lips
so near devours your resistance.
Against waves of longing and desire
dreams are what it could be like.
Far below among the blackthorn
hares chase foxes
and Roebucks hunt hunters.
To shield me from the terror you
press my face against your chest.
We are breathing molecules into
the light and a slight glimmer of red
rises in the east.
It would be easy now to fly.
It’s not because of not you
just my mind side-stepping for a couple of syncopated beats
let’s talk the modern man
after shaves and attitudes breathing fresh weeds growing beneath a golden sun
and some deep-blue-green
ocean-fed sky arching the circle of my mind’s eye Me on calm moving meadows
philosophizing ,watching ants
building micro-empires for now and a boot’s blow
Oh baby with your red-eyed strands
of velvety umbilical cords climbing into melting-down skies if I kissed your hair would you even notice?
Poetry by Gurkski
The room is stifling with
The sad cafe tends to its ghosts
but we are more than grateful to forget.
There are no secrets among these
desolate lovers disfigured by life.
We inhale circlets of smoke
that linger in the air and taste lips
The night arches its back
to drunken angels so we dance
beneath stars that meet us halfway.
“Knowing” by Andrew Atroshenko
is A child that looks out
from eyes that weep diamonds
or liquid fire spills from the curve of her lip
burns trails down her cheeks
those voices inside roll on waves
of ocean-like silence from the pit of her belly
(is that possible?)
cold clouds rain down from some god-forsaken
depth that like the tender touch of heartbreak
pleads come and rest.
Photographer unknown, public domain
Drawn by the pull of possibility
I am at war with resistance
tempted by persuasion and the
dynamic momentum of hands
on taut shoulders
the gravitational press on tangled
knots and willowy limbs that succumb to
a black spell night
your kiss is kindle igniting
the perfect fire
Come dawn I am a periwinkle
at your pillow
tender petals bending to what
art by Andre Belinchenko
When I am near you I become a glimmering
chimera of mirrors tempered of shell and sand
a cascading niagara plunging into deep pools of desire
where I am so afraid to fall.
Powerless to hold back I immerse in the irides of your eyes
as speechless as tongueless birds.
The current of tides tangles you in the succulent
mirage of my eyelashes. You and I are more than
the wispy smoke of clouds or an epoch of bones
but the breathing air of lovers rushing through veins
as gentle or fierce as the press of your thigh on mine.
On a mossy hill behind a mock castle
we will read Aristophanes to harems
of nymphs strumming their lyre.
Words transform to birds flitting
hearts of lovers while I contemplate
the perfect angle of your face
breathe in the amber resin of pine trees
that permeate our senses
There in the unruffled pools of your eyes
I will die just a little
You want her to be real
A half smile curve of lips a glide of a hand through hair
The click of heels on a marble floor
You want to be her clothes Falling softly about her feet That have formed the shape of her feet and when she arches her back she soars as high as imagined wings can fly.
art by Luigi Quarti “fallen angel”
I feel you
at the razor edge of madness
in the fierce break of waves along
the sea line
a half moon fading at dawn
in shifting shadows of endings.
I feel you in the sweet froth
and flow of memory.
In dark eyes that catch mine in
musty corridors of dreams
I see you
in the wild of wolves
the vigil of birds at my midnight window.
I sense you in sacred passages
where like phantoms we are lost.
art by Karol Bak