you are the toska breeding in me like vicious flowers
cannas perhaps lotus or bleeding hearts
haunting the excruciating longing in my sinking chest
a calming and white haunting

I hear a thud in the middle of my body and it seems
that my heart levels itself in between my dimmed ribs
so that it may nervously burst in my core
to let that beautiful yellow childlike  sun into my body

what am I without you, a weltering raindrop
on top of a dark wooden roof
falling into the rustic mud while nobody is watching
being absorbed into the earth while nobody
cares

when I spoke my voice was hallow
and now you fill my speech and the streaks of tunes from my neck
like a starving man who by the grace of God has been blessed
with the feast of kings and queens

the phantom artist of something like a never ending dream
the gentle spirit
the serene incubus

you
daydreamer of withering beauty
heartless and genuine
I rest my smile upon your spine
I suffocate into your talent
of a deep and barren like litost

your calm ocean
as mine
filled with creatures only our imaginations
can begin to decipher
a tender arena of hearts and fowl play
you have taught me more about myself
I am bathing in beauty
drowning in a glorifying deep silk

I would bring my last weeping words  in a coffin
with  dark and rich embroidery resembling
that of your driven eyes
for a simple brush of your hand
upon my cheek

Hold me.
Squeeze me.
Hard.
Break me.
Shatter me
into p i e c e s.
Lay me out on the cold wood floor.
Put me back together.
And tell me how you did it.

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
            it’s
                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

she is organza and rough, nubbly raw silk
that tears your fingers
and bleeds you purple, sweet.


civilizations rise and fall
in the curve of her mouth.

If an easy rain
would make the rocks slippery,
he would hold my hand.