Poets, like
madmen and prophets,
are banned from
the Kingdom of Reason,
as they are
the progeny of the sun
(the sun who illumines as he blinds)
and the siblings
of the rays
who never tire
of beating
the world into
magnificent new shapes
that fascinate us
all – including
Unwavering Moon whose
lonesome secret is to be
madly in love
with the rainbow.

© LazharBouazzi, May 26, 216

Ignore the veiled murmur beneath
the social graces and party conversation

excuse this bland ****** arrangement
feigning interest in tales worn thin
cruising the same old Memorial Parkway.

This, and the embedded gravel
marking each grim rotation:

expectation
disappointment
anger

the weight of relentless perfection.

I am the artist of the painting I call my life.
And every now and then,
the man I love  makes surprise appearances
in which, he sheds vivid colors of pain, love, lust and hate
on my bland misused body.
He does this passionately with his own
blood, sweat and tears
Creating between my love and his, colors that don’t exist
It is a thing of beauty, truly.
But at the end he always leaves
and then it becomes my vigorous displeasure
to blend the colors he leaves behind.
Turning back to simpler colors of life