I swirl galaxies
In a fit of pique

Soothe exo planets
Locked in orbit

Blow gentle air
From hot face
To freezing rear

This I
Centre of centreless
Space

Dimple in the chin
Of directionless
Being

Entire universe
Mere metaphor

Of how This I
May feel
Right now.

This vaunted ambition
These vaulted palaces

Celebrants all of

This I that
This I calls

God as a two year old
Stamping mighty feet

This nothing at all
This whatever
This I
That is what it is

And loves only
This I

Some mountains pretend
They are unmoving

Their subtle lie
Pretends to permanence.

We are apart
For some reason
I cannot fathom

But trust
The chi

Red is the color of anger
That burns and boils and bubbles
It seethes and seems to soak into beauty
It is cold and fierce and fiery
And ironically
*red is the color of love

Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the *******
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.

Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.

Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.

"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books.  Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528).  Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.

Die
Because the world
Why?
Because the world can't allow it
                           Now

I see color
In the darkest
And I know life and love
I see generations
Heard stories
Felt death

Live
And words
Live
And life
Live
And money
Live
And all conniving interest yell
Live

And fight

Tomorrow
In some forsaken sandlot
In some unforgiving parking lot
In some hell
I'll find heaven
In death

Live

Because tomorrow's brighter sun
Found a cloud
And only one way.around

Live

I close my eyes and the black sea rises.
As I try to sleep, I feel my body sway.
My dreams are filled with many surprises.
So I force myself to stay awake till the next day.

Breathe.
Let the air flow.
Take in the calm around you
as greenery takes in sunshine.
Cool your nerves
and listen to your beautiful heartbeat.
Stretch out your sinuous limbs
and ease the tension
not only in your body,
but in your mind as well.
Let go of all your troubles
but for a simple minute.
Meditate on what you believe
and let your inner lifelines flow
to create a beautifully conglomerated soul
healed of all wounds past.
Leave yourself be for just a moment;
it makes all the difference in the world.

Seeing
her restless towards
unable to share her problem
though she has hundreds
of friends in social networks
an understanding
She was not lacking friends
but friendship...

it is the cloth

that bears the stain.



sbm.

It is hard
to describe
how the rush of
          the drench
of a furious
     storm makes
my downpour
             clench
wet desert wind
that sparks me
                   alive
sending currents
from the whorls of
                my scalp
down through the
rings of my spine
It trips over
                  dermis
like kimono silk
thick as the cream
of lapped-up
              milk
alighting my
senses in
rose quartz tints
igniting cells
to my surface
with earthed-up flint
The strike of rocks
echoes ancient
           sounds
reverberating heat
throughout my scared
                        mound
And I let the rain
pour directly in
to my soul's
humble vessel,
cleansing me,
     rinsed
from relentless
        spirit-wrestle
free of stains
from self-doubt,
         self-hate
to align my vision
with choice-infused fate
and I am the storm
that swirls through
the trees
I am the dream
whipped up thick
in the breeze
ready for surrender
as I pull the reigns
ready for the tender
conflagration
         of the
sacred
      blaze