Interlude

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.

Related image

Babylon

Ap-holo-gees

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 Sad Cafe (V)

The room is stifling with

deflowered souls.

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

dripping desire.

The night arches its back

to drunken angels so we dance

beneath stars that meet us halfway.

Andrew Atroshenko Knowing painting - Knowing print for sale

“Knowing” by Andrew Atroshenko

The Woman in the Mirror

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

Persuasion

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

is golden.

61 Figurative Paintings By Kazakhstani Artist Andrei Belichenko

art by Andre Belinchenko

Breathing air

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.

Indulging Conjecture

Pink sand pulls away
from the glistening shore
melting fondant in the
sticky heat
Minute  ecosystems inhabit
tiny  grottoes in  tide pools
of wet sand
Some days I stroll the coast alone
escaping into secret realms of lovers
where there is no logic but
an aching crush I hold to my breast
a passage between a heart and the
mountains where I left you
Allow me to come undone beneath
tender hands on eggshell
the gentle quake of a sigh upon your
unshaven cheek
Let me   drown in the green river of
your eyes where there
is no threat of war hard silence
or the burden of forgiveness

Come Autumn

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

artist unknown

milieu

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.

Luigi Quarti

art by Luigi Quarti “fallen angel”

I Still Feel You

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

Karol Bak kneeling