A cardiac flush paints just respiratory
via ivory of ribs name to launch, bear, ovulate,
an explicit painter your mother would never count acceptable like
a feather's charcoal flight
a whitened bow of silk for your neck to gush with,
in a mess adorn,
Pueyo's nomad or form turned poem I take
greater than any body's gifted *******,
but enamel of guitar's caramel my bonfire took for granted chips.

Let's imagine we identify
****** for David's curls on doe eyes for a woman in return.
Let's imagine we identify
peach marble ways of men tinting what as agender stars in ashes lie.
Let's imagine we identify
*** at last as nameless liberty for home.
Wounds, impeccable fire platter, a night holds.

Once in her time a nightingale nurse held lone for corridors light,
might my clacks and nervous chirps on a lantern in a tea for someone
rushed my fingers bless just like her alone...

An empty gaze. A late clock.

And I and Christ perched with a washing bowl at someone's feet,
we meek but at praise, unattainable,
And I a statue with silk black at my end of curves' robe.

I might wish to serve one of those corridor nights
without a cover tugging at my edges
yet a hopefully audacious male David gaze in intent,
for a wayfaring soul on my couch,
for glorious shame their touch would put on my ways
of the acrylic of ***,
for brightening bland stars agender into honey,
and my work for bare choices
errands
picked.

Gasp.

When you play the piano like
a rasped yet ****** hopeful breath of your last moment,
in ink and milk hues,
you pay heed to the never audible sound
the wave of falling gradients on the last day
sky bear lightly mournfully

I never could prop up a failed elbow’s art gallery shaft,
Louvre welcomes vast, snob, cold or ludicrous, unextended.
Twenty thousand leagues under the acrylic,
If only to break the painter’s resolve, heaped in beige
on the floor, for a block, at the guest’s bench’s remorse,
desperate clingy till the hours go off and again dud you’re bound home.
Yet ever since with paint’s poise invited, gasped for air I’ve been,
I retrace, reshape, try boots’ every flapping museum snitch,
in volatile water colours’ sling and Kanagawa rehearsal belief
I stand for nothing more but a room, a painting, long hall, and hours to miss.

Sometimes we laugh and sometimes we cry
Enjoying our moments in wealth and good vibes
But there are those times when we get caught and despair,
Only a miracle can save us, dear friend,
                                                              from our poetry's tragic end.

One night fully spent in the wake of long hours,
With thoughts streaming loud: You'll be mine,
Look what we've prepared for you!"
The images moving in slow motion in waves,
Only a miracle can save us, good friend.

Peaceful times disturbed, lust for life,
                                                        lust for the eternal love,
Why don't we dare to know all this justice?
Why am I asking for more sorrow and trouble?
Only a miracle can save us from ourselves.

I’ve been thinking of living like a fire,
crawling at my boots for fields, thirsty,
soothing guitar’s enamel of blood and memories,
life taking yet passion agent for our breaths and eyes to stay.
Life taking for those who live with roots all day.
Life taking for those who fairly clasp their prey.

I’ve been thinking of living like a fire,
a candle offspring of a dangerous meditation,
Rocks rumbling into coffin forests,
and an academic scorched sight that will endure only
in cigarette poems‘ claim.

A string.

Lights or darks
To break a glass,
I’m worth on it and not in the droll,
To depart from the bed in black the one who
Addresses themselves to overtake their self and become in a rave,
Violin string works at ease;
Give me a gulp of the Moon to crash to my side,
to crack in ecstasy of me inside.
I’ve put up enough with walking perfect like the porcelain.