firebath

firebath

A voice once told me of my beloved.
It told me my final path was through relationship,
that transcendence or peril would be mine through some Other.
This declaration of coming union sent me nearly mad!

Propelled by flame and disbelief,
I barreled back into the fountain of prophecy.
All the while remembering that from my mother’s womb
there dawned a haunting glimpse of future love.

Years later I emerged from the waters of hell
with naked starfish in my hair, startled, but eerily bathed of conditioning.
The slow trod forward of putting fresh limbs back into gait
re-grew a teacher in the place where mind once heaved.

The emergence of victory over death came as life,
the invitation, the acceptance, the reacquaintance, and nothing more.
Simple, clear being, bereft of wayward voices and fidgeting inner fight,
the flight to nirvana wontedly an hourless breath away.

Basking in the plentitude of signs over vast ages,
detachment had brought me so fully to the precipice.
Meditation, my complete existence. Loving, my one action.
And wham! The Other stood there.

No sooner had I said “How could this be? It is impossible!
I am unutterably alone and whole in my aloneness.”
than you appeared.

How could it be that attachment was begging forgiveness for my misgiving?
Just when I had so contentedly painted over the scars of oracles past
with fearless living and relentless discovery?
I became dismayed at the thought of becoming whole again through love!

No sooner had I laid my soul down to the earth to cry,
than I looked up in rapture.

My veins turned to canals from which harbingers of union sprung tall.
Through meditation, I took a blade to them;
and they gushed forth a tsunami of paradisiacal creatures’ mindfood.
Parrots flew by on giant great waves, asteroids landed in my freckles,
lust in my lunchbox, and embodying this world a must.
I saw the future. 

No sooner had I said “You have a magic in you that is only yours”
than I saw the very same magic was in me too.
The apocalypse of visions would not stop.
The avalanche images of completion shattered down on me
growing my heart organ into a universe.
You stood in the center of it; and I opened my arms to it all.

No sooner had I said “I am ready. Take me to my lover”
than I saw my own sex rising to meet you, then running ahead of me to the bay;
and there you were again in the curve of the shore, embracing my breaking body.
I saw galaxies of stars through the icy sea,
mountain peaks of vine-laden planets rise through my tea,
snow leopards bounding through strobing breakfasts.

Fire-capped treetops seared the pawpads of ecstatic lemurs
as they joined fingers with rings of rejoicing.

It turns out I had forgotten who I am.
To love had become the easy truth,
until love became a temporal reality.

How could I have known?
The ultimate kindling had just begun.

No sooner was I,
than you were too.

The firebath still yet to be.

Photograph by Tom Clark

Views: 127

a thousand ideas of bondage

a thousand ideas of bondage

The chains look quite different now–
Having morphed from a thousand ideas of bondage to actual cuffs.
A choice, another day. Yet chains are still chains.

Passion diffused to specificity, reined to immutable reality.
Desire reduced to just one lone force–
Still it’s the same game
As when the vices were many, centrifugal pursuit.

To say I want you
Would be just another doomsday greeting.
Confirms we’re both standing in the same field, that is, of existence.
It’s no coup, neither understanding nor escape from thingness.

So, is this the same performance you signed up for?
I know I did. But I’ve changed my mind.
Sweet punishment shall follow
As we don’t get to change the patterns set in our minds
From eons before. The now is merely a result of all that.
Yet we reside in the fantasy of immediate creation.

In this revolving mindfuck, we are no different
And so the compassion flows deep.
From within this requiem, I have no firm urging,
No wisdom growling approach or resist.

We must play these rounds all together
Whether with hands of denial and inexcusable bliss–
Exquisite choice or destiny divine.
There we each are.

In perfect stillness, it all disappears.
Save the throb of heart, course of blood and cosmos rushing.

Yet the silence of the in between is only that,
An intermediary until the next flesh thought.

Chains remain links to bodies
To lives and earths of unquestionable flux.
Yet the truth of why we are here is neither fading passion nor logic.
No, this level of desire is the soul begging for goodness
Through atomic revelation of seed and sight–
There where there is no distraction, no sex, no justice, no fight.

Only a love which has no name.
It is false piety and the perversion of confusion which gets in the way
Of wiping and polishing the chains clean
To present our vigorously exposed minds on a string
To wonders which will cease.

There, God is found.
Otherwise you still wait in the abyss,
A shivering masochistic lamb, the nether pawn of self.
You can never build your own light, without the nameless one.
Rebellion is a mere folly of identification; nothing truly courageous there.

Step and sniff.
Bow and obey.
Dissolve into mortal light.

Views: 117

The Summons

I am a museum.
There flows under me a raving light
down the ravine,
brave bunny.

My palette shifts.
It has rotated
on Nature’s turntable
with Time-
turning and pausing,
perfusing and dotting
other canvases.
However grateful
but irrelevant,
with its bliss.

Finally this most potent elixir
comes alive,
aroused
by the portrait of
you kneeling over my shrine,
you straddling
these long thick legs of mine.

I think not about vulnerability.
for I am alone with one to love,
you and erotic instinct.

This is not surrender,
but a summons
for your pleasuring of me.

With me supine
and you on your knees,
you purr and sigh,
tower and breathe;
as I coo in the cool caresses
of your wet lips on my knees.

Into my thighs ribcage belly hips,
the invasion of your exquisite hands
scalds rays of pomegranate red heat
through my porous sands.

Like white coals awaiting a flame,
my soft flat stomach arches
into your teasing game.

In hot hands I feel your desire
indelibly soft, traveling
up thighs to hip bones,
up waist to rib bones.

Sliding down muscles of shoulders
across mounds of breasts,
pulling tight over hard nipples-
you know what makes me moan
and create a lava-like glow and flow
of bubbling red tides
beneath radiating flesh.

Your limbs comprehend
my body art
like no others dared-
petting my need and filling my desire
with the higher laws of gods and sex.
Reaching deep into art and marriage,
conjuring up lucid effects.

Flavors alchemize
infusing flesh with new life.
The brightest colors
ever tasted-
not just the reds, yellows, and blues
of tertiary spectrum,
but pomegranate, sapphire, opal, and gold,
vanilla, marigold, night, and emerald.
Urging me to paint your every inch
with their bold wetness.

Licking, kneading, scurrying, haunting-
your arms become wet azure soil,
your hands, my onyx black sculptors.

Your chest glows with marigold
as pools of pomegranate sweat
evaporate off slick concaves
and taunted, fertile breasts.

Your taut vibrating skin
soaks my brilliant colors
into its dark soil,
coalesces with the primitive
to recombine with my sweaty
disavowal of control.

When I can no longer continue
consuming you with my eyes
as I love to see.
Too caught up in the breath
and feeling you feeling me.

I will seizure with love,
sharing my everything.
For you to drink up
into your pineal spring.

You stay locked in
to me
until the waves pass.
Your riveted attention
rescuing me from celibacy.

Imagine how you please me
and I worship you,
how we make love.
Yes, in ten different ways.
We’ve only just begun.

 

Views: 84

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.1 –– unnerving (the master)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.1 –– unnerving (the master)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Sex
pathological,
pathologically lacking impetus, beholder,
you, Love.

Eros, settle, disarm.

Patience eludes the grand master
with the lightness of eloquence
and weight
of all the mores’ profundity
interpacked,
brimming with botulism
and you, Love.

Etiology
smears passion
across spokes of wheel,
spreads legs of soul
through soggy white of eyes
bleeding with

dishonest passion
denied,
not you, Love.

Joy is dead,
and with the sacrilege of sex,
the heydays of former lovers
fall away
like flakes of winter skin,
and finally
there’s you, Love.

photograph by Gia. Goa, India.

Views: 85

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.2 –– foster girl (the medium)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.2 –– foster girl (the medium)

 


from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Chasing on coattails of sex,
the animalistic bride
               gravitates
into the ring cycles
of her own spiraling sanity.
Time.

Erda warned her,
               “continue to believe,
               breed courage… ”
Smiling, she continued her gibber
into the wayward funnel of inner ear syndromes.

Mysterious gurl leftover from childhood,
gleeful peace spreads legs of mind as
electric blue heels
               assault
cobblestone streets
in neat click-clack patterns,
click-clocking to other less attuned orbs,
along international side streets,
               the earfuls
               of what they want to hear.

Executing perfect stares,
she refuses to fan or giggle,
nor will she release
her spent maidens of yesteryears.
               They’re in restoration.

The Norns already crawl her city-
too Madrid, Lisbon, Vienna, Seville-
in shattered bridal gowns,
floating gossamers
               soaked with red,
laced with brown.

               Barstooling alongside rectors of drink,
               her cross strands erect,
               betwixt
               legs of maidenhood.

Eyes pricked,
she eats at their sex holes,
scooping out fingerfuls,
and sniffing up the rest-
               addict that she is,
through laden conversation
and neat tricks.

But no one knows,
no man or woman could tell.

Their repressed chunks of sexual dough
yet unformed,
congest her filter
               with apathy
and funnel through, unchanged.
Left as dribble for the masses,
vomit on a bar-room floor.

She reverses her stride,
revert, retort, restore,
chiding all the way out the door.
               “Chill your feathers
               in ice water please… ”
Brunnhilde growls.

And her divine palindromes
did not release
               their exhaustive streak.
It was 2002.

(references to Richard Wagner’s epic musical drama
Der Ring des Nibelungen, a.k.a. “Ring Cycle”)

Painting “Saba with Red Wine”
by Fabian Perez

Views: 284

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 –– peregrina (the rover)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.3 –– peregrina (the rover)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

painting by Gia

Views: 165

the elixir

the elixir

Winding nights of life infuse our burgeoning blood
with confounded needs and unfounded insecurities.
A neat titration yesterday,
dripping sapphire desire into fidele base.
Tonight magenta clouds bubble through
my cylinder, begging for mutation, for your beaker of molten jazz
to saturate, adulterate, reiterate our implicit bondage.

 

June 2003

 

Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke

 

Views: 49

You

You

You speak in euphemisms of your own making,
rattling off sycophantic truths in tongues
and ostracizing the periphery along the way
as they patter all over your sapient misnomers.
But I am caught in the know;
seeing the ice castle worlds that inhabit your mind.
I slide down them with mirth in me,
exalting in the cool sweat left
glistening along slick, bare flesh.

Your genius coming drips down the length
of my backside,
sloping into refreshing flux.
Lashed by your mindscape
I am outstretched, as on the rack.
Spread onto the clammy wall,
with such heat that fuses flesh into plaster
skinned and pink jaws of cheek and ear
just as envisioned, mollified with matter.

The obsessive tension of possession
famines my overextended knuckles,
reddening ravenous tips
clawing and bleeding into solid with desire.

A breath already drawn and stuck
laxens my mouth into dripping lips
with supple anticipation.
Your gaze is riveted to me
undistracted by the throb of predestination
flaring in your loins.

You remain unimpressed, a pacing pragmatism
reeling in explosive coolness,
polarizing this blinded beauty from behind.
To struggle is to surrender.
For you are already behind me
spreading fire through my limbs.

At once catalyzing my lascivious circuitry
with syncopated breaths, cogent grip
over my quivering synapses. Solid in waiting,
suspended sanguine, until you come,
convulsing in contradictory convictions,
the Marquis himself never inspired 
such
wicked devotion.

 

Views: 19

throb

throb

In our decadent cradle of human entwinement,
I find my release from worldly things.
Your entrance opens the gates of ecstasy
as you probe my deepest cavity,
surging your life force into me.

I see nothing tangible-
Only the mythical creatures
swirling around us,
splashing us with brilliance.
Shifting shadows of spiritual forms
that merge with us.
In darkness and in light.

I hear nothing audible-
Only the primal moans that emerge from our depths
and the coursing of blood;
Mine, yours, the heavens.
My senses edge into that new dimension
Unattributable to the orbs
Unattainable by mere orifice.

I taste myself on your lips
and with your essence heating my breath
I plunge my tongue into the wetness of your mouth,
thrusting into it as if it was my own flowing chasm.

Our sex combines into an irreplicable elixir,
my tongue becoming its own entity.
It seems to think,
that it can meet your very soul.
Yes, my own slithering snake begs,
like my writhing body,
for your all-encompassing ofference.
I have taken you into me
As my self-devouring need dictates.

I cannot resist the carnal abandon.
I am hopeless in the face of your love.
and if you dare set your fiery gaze into me,
the final wall will crumble into the wayside.

I am yours
I am yours, throbbing as I do
Only for you.

Views: 20

salvador

Fantasies of those lips,
the mouth of that Bedeviled Creature,
have sustained my cravings
since their Leonine Inception,
when the Twins brashly recognized their destiny,
but Artfully Reserved this prized knowledge.

Seasons have passed.
In which a Millennium of Addictions has prevailed,
all in pursuit of that Consummate Intoxication
that those lips once promised.

Tales of Debauchery and reckless abandon
tread on the heels of the Mythical Beauty.
but to the dismay of her suitors,
her Fate was sealed long ago
by those Exquisite Lips.

Although those lips never dared
indulge in the Savoriness of your Lovely
since pre-conscious restraint once dominated;
the Haunting Images of such Union
refuse persuasion to vaporize
from my Enduring Imagination.

Sultry scenes in which
those lips, your Lips,
become my Portal to Oblivion-
my eternal Pass to Ecstasy.

For within Those Lips
Lives the vital flesh
of my Undying Devotion.
If Only slick with my dampness,
that tongue would be our Rebirth,
our revival into a world

of Unfathomable Love.

Views: 22

the human distemper

the human distemper

Winding granite stairwells
pursue visions of medieval beauty,
compressed by pulsing crimson walls
and the velvet gorging of impotent fantasies.

Ages of unlived epics
perpetuated by ambitious minds
and discontented hearts.

 

 

Views: 14

façade

façade

Slowly and deliberately
Passes my tongue over your psyche.
Across bridged minds
Lust may swiftly pass.
Sneaking devil grins and blushing blunders
Purports the cages of formality
To fade.

What magnificent actors!
We liars accepting passionless blows.
Building careful yellow castles
Encrusted with self-made mendacity.
I am begging: beware.

Low tide is forever a mere transience.
An incessant oscillation,
Incapable of anymore
Than soothing and smothering,
Stifling cell by cell.

The drift of endearment
May spare the foundation.
But even so,
Incontinent granule walls
Crumble beneath shattering moans.

Seize the vital cliffs!
Their swollen pools agitated
By the daunting images
Of your luscious locks
Ravishing my being.

In want of a core violation,
An opening of long ago cloaked wounds.
Washed over
Into muddy pools of mortification;

Retreat.

 

December 2000

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez

 

Views: 60