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 Mar 2013 Andrea
Seán Mac Falls
I will not die for you
Woman fey of flesh and home,
I linger but to see you unfrock
The holy, set rogues to roam.

Why should I thus be consumed
In breath like coldest fire?
Shape of rising waterfalls
That state, I surely do not desire

The downy *******, the runny skin,
Spark of cheek, notes of hair in shower,
The gliding step, the gusty tone,
Fools have died for much less a dower.

The lancing pools, the hemlock mien,
The highland sheen, the dawn-bird voice,
The Safire eye, over step of pyramid
Merlin gave Arthur a safer choice.

I will not drown for you,
Flood of hair, red as the lye
In parted Jordan, that sea, not me,
Shall pine as ever, slowly dying.

Your healing humors, your subtle sovereignty,
Your blood, noble as seven-seas are blue,
Little mirror who paints the sky,
Though nearly, I will not die for you.
 Mar 2013 Andrea
JM
I put the "fun" in dysfunctional, the "hot" in psychotic.
I seriously ******* hate ten word "poems." I don't consider them poems, but then again, I don't consider anything I write to be poetry.
Dearest.

I had spilt my coffee
on your working table.

The manuscript that you were finishing
flinched, yelled, bled painfully
then stared at me accusingly

doubting your existence which is
gracefully drowning in the fatal glow
of left-overs and world dropping dead.

Perhaps, after a long time,
your heart will take its beat tonight.
It was organised
your room
when I entered.

A moment after,
the propped pillows,
the crumpled blanket,
your tired jeans,
my shoes somewhere disarrayed,
our battered whispers,
the traces of your fingerprints,
your heart beneath the bedsheet
and my last glimpse of you

they will forever remind me
of something beautiful.
 Mar 2013 Andrea
Seán Mac Falls
Under the muted bark of hazelnut trees,
Spurious, sprite juncos scurry in vertigo,
Pecking, replete bouncing downy knees,
Grounded, tuft, constellation of Scorpio.
 Mar 2013 Andrea
Julia
Relapse
 Mar 2013 Andrea
Julia
The joy of the day after
was the song of my soul
free from the restraints of
language, from the bars of
repression & rejection, the
way nobody wants it to be.
I don't have storage for all
of this love that I am penting
up inside. I place what I can,
what I have to, in closed-doored
hearts of friends who can't,
or won't, reciprocate. My love
is prisoner, starving for takers,
for a listening ear & a loving
heart.

Starving for takers,
but hungry for you.
A bit old, about a month ago. Funny how fast feelings change.
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