love in eight stanzas

love in eight stanzas

I.
We have each traded ourselves in
for the other.
Seeming to fulfill the dense plot of desire
that we continually harvest,
the perennial property of our existence.

II.
Do not love me, for you do.
Disengage the affording branch
from my corridor
and plug it into your own.
Reintroduce your ambition to its origin.
Here it may meekly dip only one trait in
(but permit practice sessions).

III.
You are being beckoned now.
Your old self of reality
screams through me.
Breathe yourself in;
I know that you see me
and think that you love me.
In fact, you do. 
But the love for your soul
must thrive in harmony,
strengthening each individual love.

IV.
We are one.
And previously, as two,
we found ourselves, alone and connected.
Brief brushes often maybe, at times,
even now; elemental brilliance is still possible.
Merely, understandably, in hiding.
Don’t you think,
that sometimes, we should all just live
from within the masquerade?
Like it is a masquerade.
(For it is.)
Here, we star in our own plays
allowing ourselves to be playwright
by entitlement and luscious capability.
Ultimately culpability, I know!

V.
Will you join me in the forest of decadence?
Wear your costume of true self.
Not the daily duds of conformity
that we have become so accustomed to,
but those that exude
the exuberance which draws.

VI.
This game is not for them; it’s ours.
Shear your landscape
into the most outrageous design imaginable.
Curse the censor;
fold him up into his can.

VII.
I cannot fall in love with you anymore
as I repeat every three beats of my heart.
And yet, I will.
Regardless, bubbles do brew and tumble
voluptuously, so far from our union.
Stop scrutinizing!
Encouraging eruption, minus becoming,
will not.

VIII.
Just take the swell of the storm
into your body
and simply allow yourself to become it.
Feel that you will lose yourself;
and there, sitting divine and naked,
you will find yourself.
And meet the one that I love.

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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.

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Barfly

Monday night, the demons again take holda’
The well-meaning shell of a disheartened guru might.
It only takes a first order, whiskey and soda,
Like every other unmeditated night.
Wiley gnomes emerge from his mind, unclothed;
Sardonic screeching alights their pathway
Littering the airway with candied souls betrothed.
To the solicitation of those wrath may
Eagerly consume caustic winged messengers
Whose only folly is their own blunt malady.
A waxing tendency to perch on impulse centers
Brazenly unravels idyllic spools of blasphemy.
Back to London, sweet soul. You’re poorly suited for possession.
Leave Jack to other would-be geniuses’ creative recession.

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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.

 

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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

 

 

Views: 206

cortex

cortex

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.

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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