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resting upon a wet diamonte cloth*  a dew encrusted diamante goblet  of sparkling bubbling classic champagne  floating a jewelled ice berg  the solitaire diamond encrusted  the ring of Celtic gold thrice captured

indulged then held fast in your naked sleeping beauty - with visions of our night shared in driven imaginative love
the coloured reality of a nights unreality -  soon both awake we will discover more
now we slip between reverie and gentle touch - this is our love in loves haecceity

within a darkened airy Bedouin tents comfort  then thrice by the lonely beauty of the green oasis  waves of guarding desert dunes  beyond a mirage of dry high peaks  here I await her dreaming heart

.
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010
We were sweating, and moving together, like animals.
It wasn't enough that we took our mothers pills,
and filled our pockets with sugar.
We needed more,
we needed to kiss and dance,
feel something soft against our bodies.

I wanted you to justify your actions
with something more than a side-ways glance,
but you don't care to explain yourself,
because you seem to do things for no reason.

We were too sensual for casual conversation,
and although we talked all day,
we didn't know what our tones meant,
or how to answer each other's questions.

I wanted to feed you chocolate,
and feel your hands on my sides,
but for some reason you wanted to tell me jokes,
and use your hands for other things.

We were holding on in small ways,
secret ways that made people stare,
and wonder if we were in love,
even though they knew we weren't.

I wanted to consume as many chemicals as I could,
because the ones we shared were worth close to nothing.
Tempestuous longings from behind the screen of life’s moving picture
You stare back at me, in a glimmering, shimmering afterthought
Laid low by foregoing passion
In a moment’s torrid glimpse from our hollow reflections
Fragrant evenings during seasons of filming
Solemnly captured and revised then experienced
The all encompassing struggle with context and setting
Abides a steely night, in the rustle of autumn branches
Requiem for an unremitting beloved!
Sung in the valley between piercing peaks of sorrow
She floats through the scene as distinct aura and vague essence
An embrace from the trail of vapors and misspent gestures
All emanating from a glass of cider beneath nostrils
Gracefully, you embank on the wind of time’s shadow
And nudge my cheek with impetus and vigor
Lashing out at my skin in ambivalent revelry
As if my follicles were vacuous caverns
Catching the callous moments which flutter the ***** of hillside tents
The unearthly gusts of banality extinguish the projector’s gleam
While nature embodies your beauty furthermore
Toward the end of the pathway
And the credits of the film
And the allegro of the score
And the solitude of eternity
And the rustling of the branches
not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.
if a bird just can't sing the Blues
what can you do?
buy him some lessons
with a mezzo-soprano,
or lower his beak
to an alto contralto?
take him to doctors;
buy him a shrink
but don't give him time
to just sit and think?
buy him a *****,
and a liter of Beam-
then tell him that things
are not what they seem;
give him good food
and lots of attention;
then rent him out
to the woodpecker's convention.

(and if all else fail,
he can guard your corn
and play his nostrils
like an old French horn)
Lacking of life now
I lol on my fine divan
Laziness often
lacks the power of rapture
as in sofa or bedsprings


Labour of love her
for large obese lobster me
Mermaids capture me
a symphony of sea-sick
rasping tongues lick our lumps


Little old lady
typing the language of love
A real cyber date
computer romance limits
operational life's love


Laughing over lines
of disco ****- pure *******
Lewd obscene language
grasping lemon or lime highs
to count Hollywood star shootings


A full length of life
the longing off, lay proceeds
Lady of the Lake
lunging our lisps sound depths
we are - breathing harmony


The land of Lincoln
legion of Lucifer's Lord
landscaping of lawns,
losing our liberty's law,
leaving on lights, blinding


Lots of Laughs or 'lol'
populist abbreviation*
language often less,
leftovers of literate
gone to libraries of late
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010

A renga written in collaboration
with
Christopher Terry Everson,
Nicholas Ripley
and 
Jacqueline Ivascu.
the little leaflet read out in bold letters:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

I thought about it
read the rest of the sheet
it told me how if I came to:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS
my life would be changed

so I went
the initial question still not
answered

I go the office park where it’s supposed to be,
go back into a maze of cubicles and white brick
walls, and then this simple wooden door reads:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS

I knock
the door flies open
and there’s Drew Harpy
smile of plastic
muscles of
silicon

he asks
WELL ARE YOU COMING IN FOR A NEW LIFE?

I say,
no thanks,
wrong door
and walk away

the little leaflet is still in my pocket
reading out:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

but,
I still didn't have
the answer
A reckoning, was the waste of loving you;
Whose heart was otherwhere, who's eyes
Could never resist a new, stunning view.
My solitary hovering as innocuous as a bee,
Stalking the mortal garden, come sun or shower;
As predictable as rain, as forgettable as a flower-
My comedic pratfalls less memorable,
Than her cries of elation:
Her eggs more precious than mine.
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