Robb Stark ( a d r e a m)

Our silence is an Arik Einstein record,
our rhythm – a fusion of a swing set & the wind.
For us every piece of freedom is ceremonial,
white shiny linen pressed upon one little moment,
our bodies placed perfectly like silverware,
cleaned out before the world feasts
on rusty routine & wretched clocks.
Our silence is a holiday on a big porch,
overlooking the inviting grass
we’re celebrating underneath a long blanket
and a hug that warms parts left barren.
It’s still just us and Arik,
nostalgia that may have been forgotten,
may not have even existed, but takes a few
fantastic breaths – we’re in love.
With my head on your rugged skin, my nose
rubs against the idea of entering our home
and you – so beautiful – write melodies
with unconscious eyes, another music
I’m hoping to sing with you tonight

Advertisements

Paul Banks

He makes his own while machines are typing
lonely sounds & romantic incentives –
they navigate through lengths of heart-strings.
His blood masturbates as he laments
cadaverous goddesses mimicking reason;
his love melts under summer heats, awake,
alive when he finds the perfect disguise.
Layers upon layers of colored canvases
splashing scrambled sex screams,
shackled under limited night skies.

Take him —

Run, arches under / winds over –
and laugh – enjoy the lightness of brighter minutes –
shadows can be funny too, you know.
Take him to gardens of celebrated symmetry /
precious hands through peeled alleyways.
Stream the Mediterranean heat in beds & on windows;
spell kind whispers inside his ear;
take him, run, arches under and winds over.

Loving Vincent

They have been painting you,
dearest Vincent,
drowning you in canvases –
One layer beneath another –
just to keep us warm.
Us – blank cubes of ice
over red wine;
Eyes over all when
no one else wants to see;
us who hold our drinks
to cut sounds of a buried story.
They’ll keep painting the untold
and we’ll devour.

I write

Only in true loneliness, I write.
Memory feeds the poison,
It sets the blood free;
he’ll never know the crimson fruit,
or the letters scribbled
on heated windows.
My mirrors speak of love,
but he will never know.
He translates tongues,
renders their bodies senseless,
and I in his beauty lie.
There’s a great key, they claim,
But he will never know –
I write.

Lose Your Smile

Inside looking out
while the train is checking-in
after six hours of shivery shakes.

Time to take the wheels,
feel the thump through loud earphones
and go.

Down the stairs
into the halls of transportation,
I’m moving with a smile

I won’t lose it under clear canvas skies,
when tomorrows smile back
between gothic bricks of independence,

there’s a charm undiscovered.
It will remain closed,
but to try to open it
will always bring true bliss