by Gia

peregrina, variation 1 (still roving)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.6 
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Pergola on fire;
the reminiscent coalesces
with breathless robes of doubt.
Honeyed covenants perfuse,
lacking preemptive right.
Devout and impetuous,
demanding restless unquiet.
Premalignant perfunctory
consecrates, sanctifies
reams of abyss to exist.
Reminisce. Resist.
You are dismissed.

a variation on peregrina (the rover)

loosening the noose of desire

loosening the noose of desire

My trembling words pass so lightly
over your eardrums
to anoint imprisoned passions
and dally only where descent purrs with possibility.

Even with the stammer of uncertainty,
my rapture sings loudly,
dying to graze your feverish,
without misdemeanor of too much or too little
along the way.

With each pass of ribcage
over beltloop
and near swipe of eyelash across belly;

I shudder.

Perfecting flip of wrist and thrust of soul
heaves last year’s worries out of storage
and into applicable juice.

Our ginger approach innocently betrays
the incendiary fascination
we know better to be
-pertinent information-
for an affair.

Descent of the imprisoned
diffuses the beast asunder
to haunt with oscillating pride,
a relic of pawing ginger kisses
deliberate with forethought.

If a sigh can say it all,
imagine the lifetimes a falling body
might gesticulate, one vertebrae at a time,
through thickets of wanting.

A slight realization creeps in,
bereft of consummation
heavy on disappointment.
and loosens the noose of desire
that has been dragging me so sweetly
through the fantasy of you.

Our broken illusory drags my strong feet
through the mud of still unknowing
where you might have led me
had pedigrees and inclinations
passed differently.

There’s no failing here,
we can only have or have not.

Photograph by Deana Mitchell

peregrina (the rover)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 
from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

she keeps choosing the lot of them
who stretch carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain.

the lovers who would be,
yet never will lie with she
drift sideways before eyes, a stream
of misbegotten waifs, once men, now geminis.

if only they were hustlers
pinching hipbones for dollars
or pungent sailors flooding her
furrowed welcome mat with callers.

but no,
there is he
who hides behind his gritty teeth,
and there is she who shutters at her sigh-
he who gets it up, then fondles her all awry.

“why oh why?” says she, in shambles,
replacing her nugget with two-fold flies.
when other others would be fierce
and praise God for the chance,

the innocuous illusory
strangles on his own artifice
his disappointing middle tones,
her quiet venefice.

for when she polishes off the day
and he phones in sick, sneaking groans
escape her crevice,
tick   tock   tick.

back to john she’ll slink
to the bed of home,
to biting lips and parting hips,
her amplified hours to think.

she’s bespectacled by night,
fogged-in by day,
refuses to take her midnight mangy
out to play.

for mangy’s an overly unctuous mess
malignantly pawing away at,
awaiting the preliterate
dreams of too much to confess.

at three in the morning,
foreshadowed comings
impale restless futility
on her own Eratos,
primeval virility.

in purpled shadows,
she gnaws away at Lorca’s feet,
at the pernicious stanzas,
landscapes, Andalusian meat.

breathless in robes of satin,
she’s a helix in nomadic haze,
a frustrated flesh
impressing onto bedroom mirrors
her flaming maze.

the reminiscent coalesces
with pale harmonies
re-wetting the slivers of doubt,
her vagabond body regresses,
sinless,
into violet clouds and tears.

with record player rippling
spinal hips curve to spleen
lightly, a coiling eroticism doubts
the perfect fledgling caprice
and finally,
feckless desires decease.

she stops forgetting who she is,
what her madness is about
a priori, a lamplit virginal,
impetuous in drought.

“where’s mangy?” she slurs,
“mangy, come out to play.”
stays hidden between legs
devout fertility endlessly purrs,
clawing away at indecipherable prey.

she’s clear about the meaning of sex,
the escape from rollicking deception
into cherished abandons
swimming in conception.

yet the others are not-
the ones she has chosen,
and foolishly embarked on with soul,
are drowning in preconception,
sycophantic pricks, half frozen by control.

to them, she’s swimming in madness,
tasting of precarious delight.
they see only a delectable obscurity
of precocious smells and precipitate sight.

oh, how the keeper of mangy
consecrates fevered hours to think,
yet night after night, one must shrink.
leave alone with wakefulness
its empty violet shell, her ink.

she dreams of her limestone lizard
in soft snow moonlight,
lifting his lethargic peace to her palms
sniffing and licking in like procession,

feasting on roasted heart, dripping blue love
over their alms.

her dragon has forgotten
broken chains with buried lovers
left in deserts past, it seems,
miseries lost, traced over forever
by the didactic banks of salt and sand
…..she dreams.

night after night,
the honesty of well-oiled seams
debates the covenants of love,
choosing to stretch

night after night,
carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain, and thus

night after night,
finds herself always,
and again
alone
with aurora,
keeping stock
for indeterminate bliss.

peregrina leave, dismiss.
mangy come, exist.

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