Her hot blood whispers,
secrets in the spring,
whispers of her,
whisper to me.

Beneath a jealous moon,
Silky she lies,
within my dreams,
and while sleeping
the world snores softly
carried on whisper thin wings.

And out of the nebulous night,
whisper-like laughter emits,
I feel her smile,
I hear her wonder,
Her breathing, her whispers,
exciting my skin,
Always those whispers,
I listen in.…

There's a gleam of green in the sunset red,
There's a stir of blue in the quiet mood,
There's an odious glow in the dusk outside,
Tonight, I’ll have my wine inside.
There’s none but me in this empty room,
Drinking lonely in in a swoon,
And yet still I hear a ****** voice,
Where moonlight fingers the window ledge.
Shall I calm the thoughts within my head?
No, I think I’ll drink my wine instead.

Oh when will it be, oh when will it be,
That she shall come my face to see,
With wine and love and gladness.
Her lips to kiss those lips of mine
Whose lips will taste of wine,
So, I shall sip the music,
from her sweet lips.
And she…
For all
To see,
may taste the love,
and desire from mine.

Sometimes I wish for a tangerine tree
So that I could undress the fruit
like a lover, spontaneously

Sometimes I wish for an apple tree
So I could view the fruit as a friend
without need to peel, or pretend.

But mostly I wish for a walnut tree,
so other nuts could drop at my feet,
and have conversations with me!

In my mind,
I hold the words,
that life denies me.
Words sweet words,
speak love sweet love,
if only to grow wings instead,
if only to rise above.
Words are not speaking,
as songs are not singing,
words to wound,
words to please,
words to bring me to my knees.
All day I have written words.
My subject has been just that:
Words.
And I am wrong,
and the words are wrong,
and so the words I burn.
Cerebral pages of them.
Words.
Desperate I ask the moon,
to gather her moonlit words,
and those too I burn.
But a poem still remains.
Of the words, with the words,
in the flame, that is now the words,
I disdain.
So I burn the words to contain,
Those meaningless words un-heard,
my words,
and am then burnt,
by all I cannot save,
all I cannot love,
and all I leave un-made.
But the words,
the words remain the same.