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

Visits: 273

el cielo

el cielo

The kingdom divinely promised,
centuries before my conception,
for twenty-two years, appeared
only as a shadow invitation–
bewitching, through smoke walls
and silken mirrors.

Ropes of gold led the way
loosely fashioned about my wrists.
Threads of knowledge, taste, and experience–
each spun for the purity
of its own vital fabric.

Churning emotions arouse
internal tides, awash
with yearning.

The wonders I have seen,
and unearthly pleasures tasted
weigh heavily on my soul,
the soul of the seeker.

So said, perpetually in flight
until she dips her soul in Paradise.
Coated with trembling ecstasy
in the least expected of days
a land of treasures,
a man of pleasures.

Oh, the magnanimous announcement,
generally reserved for chartered ears.

Here, now erect, it portrays us.
It betrays us. It’s the continents again.

We are battered
but ultimately unshaken
by the chattering of the masses.
Unafraid to forage twisted foliage.

That winding verbosity of
two strands that lay together
awaiting cerebral rejection
but instead finding spiritual unification.
If the latter is to be,
our two life forces will fold into each other.

Becoming twisted
into
the tango of soul.

 

Visits: 16

lagos

lagos

Golden serpents reflect clouded aspirations
and dilute enlightenment into dust.
Unicorns on tap,
degenerate horns the same.
Duality collides in foam,
and crystal line faithfully follows.
                   Red, green, white, brown,
                   color without ground.
Gold label wishes spawn corporal delight.

I sip, I think.
Tequila drains and I sink
under watchful bartender’s watch;
                   he barters, I the martyr.
Empathetic refills offer buoyancy,
offer logistics to linguistics.
There, climbing golden towers appear
where snakes once sputtered,
powdering their scales, exfoliating our fear.
Delicious venom lacquers the runway,
eyeballs dash around.
Slithering tongues caress my shoulders;
                   nub of wing, stub of horn.

Gory gamblers
slap the dice down
for a joint in a snifter.
And for under-the-table tricks, little known
are the New Zealand drifters, the British bombers not quite,
our randy kicks ‘n’ their swingin’ misters,
all convened here in one Portuguese night.

How now, the Castilian escapists, the dance floor rapists,
and somehow, Gypsyified me.

                   Blarney revelers need not apply.
                   At the tip of essential Iberia.

 

June 2002

 

 

Visits: 201