"The Pearl of the Orient"    1989 -    
"Good guys finish last because they put their ladies first."
"Good guys finish last because they put their ladies first."

There are Venus' Bow
And Apollo's Arrow
In this love.
No cupid.
No fate.


© 2016 J.S.P.

Draft.

When you make love to me, you unbutton
     The black jeans of the universe,
You discover worlds, paths, stars,
Dwarves and giants, the viciousness
     Of a blackhole, a machine,
          Swallowing everything.
Yes, you make love to me,
As though to pour milk on the full moon,
     You turn q into d, my love,
          A crochet to a demisemiquaver,
And you make rhapsodies and raptures,
     And records, as I make them envy,
          All the suns.


© 2016 J.S.P.

Poetry is my public apology, for loving
     And hurting you too much. I bleed
In adjectives. My scars appear
Randomly at the last pages
Of your old notebooks.
     I am revision. I am bare.
I do not know darkness which can
Shadow me, but this: that you
Can see, somehow, this cosmos,
     This timeless chaos,
The divine, the celestial, guiding you
     To count on, and count
     And count and count
          The stars again.


© 2016 J.S.P.

Draft.

I am a crimson crescent
     Encircling you, embracing you,
Not quite fully, as though me
Understanding you, no,
     There is a space enough for you
To open up to the world, and cover
Yourself for me as a mystical wonder
     Or beauty, my flower, my lovely,
My hollander tulip, a heat, a tidal wave,
     A gift, a butterfly.


© 2016 J.S.P.

Draft.

Sometimes, when I love you,
As you tend to love me back, half-heartedly,
I am one with the half-moon.
And I am reeling, pulling
All the stars to be together,
To be with you, when I'm with you,
Just to be whole.


© 2016 J.S.P.

Draft.

This is your hand, your finger,
The bond of our laughter, the ring
On your ring finger, to draw
     The number eight
Wrist after wrist oftentimes
With our fingers, to show
The inked small heart, a smile, genuinely,    
     Returning back.

These are your eyes piecing all the darkness,
     Heaping, keeping all stars on my head,
Fending off the sheep, colliding all the worlds, opening the close,
     Whisking holes in the cold, cold universe.
The lost words taste, fade, melt
In the whole mouth, like a flame,
     A signal fire.

All is illusion. Love
Is the spirit between two souls
Inside two hearts
Beside two minds
     In one understanding.
It's the only defining truth, that,
     As always, there is.


© 2016 J.S.P.

Edited.

It will never be clear to me,
     If stars have shadows,
Or was it the deep, dark night
Altogether, proud
     Of its profundity?

If so, then
Why do I wait for you, you,
     Who turbulently loved me?
How come each of my night
Has to be for star-gazing,
     And yours an early sleep?

Why do I bother,
Staring
     At your closed eyes?

Tell me, why do I dream
     Ahead of you,
Miles, lightyears,
     A future away?

Love, perhaps, is a journey
To contentment. It is either
I am looking for it, or, with hope,
     Finding someone
Who will be contented
     With what I have.

So, If I will do this, bravely,
Just this, just this one kiss,
     Will you kiss me back?

Because if you do, dearest,
     With an impenitent sweetness,
Then I would be running out of queries,
And it will all go down
     To one last question, graceful,
          Unfurling,

     Which I’d rather not ask,
          That I’d rather leave answered.


© 2015 J.S.P.

Edited.
 
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