In his eyes – rivers,
of hidden knowledge;
no axioms, two fronts and
the beautiful insanity
that blossoms on his rugged skin.
In his eyes – watered flowers,
for nymphs, for satyrs’ bliss.
No sonnets or rhymes,
just the beautiful vitality
of movement and the soft
touch of his hands.
In her lyrics she knew it was impossible,
but she kept wishing for a different face,
for thinner fingers that can write velvet melodies,
for a greater hand to lead her voice to waves unknown.
The frog was lonely, that she knew,
a somebody who she met only in a song,
so she kept playing for seeds tears have watered
– into fruits –
for a scent that has lifted the spirits of an entire town
– into light –
all sounds paddle your way,
all rivers echo your name,
and my body floats on your surface.
For now, for now,
all the mind wants is a specific image,
soft, confounded, a mountain,
I am water erupting around you.
For now, for now,
all songs devour fairy tales,
I’m a shining knight with no armor,
and you are caged in a world without sleep.
For now, for now.
He patched flowers on my dresses,
turned white dots to blossoming shapes of growth.
In his words I found mine and more,
in his voice I uncovered a clear mirror.
No warning signs, no borderline inhibitions –
just beginnings piling up with the fresh smell of flavored joy.
As the heart expands, all poetry becomes tangible
and one moment fills dreams with hopes for another.
Brown head alluding to the waves,
Young, learned, affectionate brown head.
Praise and phrase forgotten rhymes
that have been washed away from the younger,
Those rats thumbing emotions in yellow faces.
Immerse their ignorant ears with flattered oceans;
concoct cathexis to help crown one moment perpetual.
Like old books when they try to talk beneath the dust,
Like what ink has caughed to earn beauty’s blood,
Like drifters who were once hailed – “heroes!” –
Sing to neighboring souls from afar –
there will be water leaking lustrous lines again –
A few drops of wine,
and nothing can prevent the transparent skin
from consuming itself with fantastical fire,
with meanings drawn from the peaks of Keats
and plastic emblems possessed by blonde toss & turns.
Just a sip from that sweet liquor,
and the beast shows its true colors –
excuses continue to render time patient,
and the West Wind is still a myth –
still fiction upon palettes baseless –
feet are made restless, and that muscle pumps
to the beat of foolish hopes.
Collect my words, align them between two white horses,
listen – swollen echoes of sirens’ bitter shrill –
tempered, feet-trampled, sampled from lilac wine
and the cherry blossoms; sweet as the aftertaste
of salt. Savor, rub then abuse them; make them kneel
before your cruelest will, corrupt with real meaning.
Brew myths that vowed beauty be bestowed on each line,
tackle them with their own prowess. Taste them, let your
tongue play with every intake of lingering
vowels; spit all staccato syllables, swallow
the rest with care, with the affection your kind gives
another fair. Only then return them to me
with the greats’ godlike grace – chaste, misplaced, seeking space.