by giadancer | Monday– 10th June 2002 | love, sensuality, travel
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.
Views: 16
by giadancer | Thursday– 6th June 2002 | jazz, language, musing, travel
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
Views: 202
by giadancer | Sunday– 14th April 2002 | disenchantment, language, musing
Reptilian curvatures sculpt the mindscape,
bare of marrow, meaty in flesh.
Such sinew carves bold imagery
into vacant neuronal pathways,
momentarily satiating sensory soothsayers.
But organic matter tends toward transformation,
inviting into cortical territory ever perched, the chisel-fingered demons,
persistently etching away
at latently enlightened tissue.
The spongy potential irreversibly hardens
into earthly delusion,
again denying conscious revolution.
Views: 16
by giadancer | Saturday– 16th February 2002 | kama, love, museless, myth
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
by giadancer | Sunday– 18th February 2001 | darkness, kama
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
by giadancer | Tuesday– 19th December 2000 | favorites, kama, love, seduction, sensuality
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: 59
by giadancer | Friday– 3rd November 2000 | language, love, sensuality, sonnet
Manipulate me with subtle language.
Embrace it, divulging the prosaic lie
Lingering on the salty summer ridge-
the carnal threshold searing from my thigh!
A warm serpent burrows inside my mind
As it lights a fire, caressing the strait.
Imploring breaths cajole a willed grind
Dripping fire into the rivets we create.
Along a lethargy of meaning, to
A snarled torrent of scurrilous bliss.
It unfolds unto jaded veins anew,
Seeping out in blankets of catharsis.
The coupling of such drives echoes the heartbeat-
As the fate which offers not vista retreat.
Views: 26
by giadancer | Tuesday– 30th May 2000 | absurdist, avant garde, bemused
Screeching Beatniks tumble from the sky
as tornadoed follicles shoot upward,
strangling pouty goose flyers.
No remorse please . . .
the wings are only to be snapped
off for swanky face fans, in any case.
Those wings once snipped and then dipped,
dipped in the Orient, purely were,
purely they were sprouted and fated to be
(to this diabolical and fancy-free embellishment),
the establishment, really, of bourgeois love.
Views: 27
