The abyss is my realm,
there, furthest,
where all light lives
to taint black my being.

There, in deep dark,
a tantric hiss
scales my harmony,
my core longs.

Here, amongst you,
my locks, my wings,
all veiled, eons
concealing my search.

And he finds me.
He faces me.
I gift him my blood
and shield his sail.

His sword is sheathed,
he looks into the faraway.
In his eyes, I wait for
his voice to tell my core.

Poetry like a raging river
Dividing and reuniting
Around rocks as if
Nothing.

Some sentences make me want
To touch each word, feeling  
The braille soul-matter
Beneath each pixel.

Norwegian sun on rooftopped
Reader; beads of sweat fall on
My touch screen
That I

Wipe off carefully in order
To read
Just one
More.

May the same sun warm the
Core of your poet's soul.
May none of the stars
On your night sky of

Creativity
Ever
Even
Fade.

She watched the guild
from afar, its yeast of unrest.
In her nomade pace

she wandered to choose
the wind and a river.
Self exiled

from edenic insights,
her quest was love immunity.
In a make believe sortilege,

she tattered her red laces
and marionnetted a will.
Rain fell: she was but a pretender.

Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.

Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.

The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?

A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,

a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.

Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover

and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.

15.5.2015

There is
no dark.
Nor light.

Just me.

Feeling.

Filled.
Empty.
Refilled.
Empty again.

**** it.
I am not a bottle!
Here,
watch me
splinting
a dumb heart.

There.
No dark.
Nor light.

spinning
spinning
round and round
the walls of a well
my centre
a round light
a crescent
a last quarter
a crescent
a round perfection
unreachable centre
spinning
spinning

not to drown

My spelling
has to be wrong.

I write love
and you don't see it.