With the words that I speak
I conjure the joys of our youth— now past
Immortal on the condition of our delayed mortality
Emblazoned in the collective memory of our twin souls—
/
As my sight goes soft at the edges, tinged gold
Reality makes way— we advance into the void:
A cabin of logs, on a lilypad of golden light
Floats in the sea of the Ancestors, their august trunks
Shed snowdowned twigs for the Hearth—
/
Stones picked from the hillside, stacked high—
/
The fire is gentle, we warm our hands
And the light of the Ancestors spreads, makes shadows
On the walls, dispels the night’s cold darkness
There is warmth, and us, and home

i cannot face a day without acknowledging a loss.
i cannot fathom such a wilderness grew so close to my place,
my society-free, impositionless place
a tepid forest inhabited
by the requiems of the agnostically murdered
and the cogged wheels of the deceased's clocks.
sometimes they stick and the clockmaster unsticks them,
but they stop up again ever so quickly.
there is nobody who has the time or effort to continually watch the clocks.
and they return to ticking an eldritch song
which may cause pain.
it has not abolished mine, nor shall forth be disseminated to do so.
i am an ascetic mastermind, abiding in my messy pool
of thought, without my womb, without my brood, without my broom
to tidy the mishmash of unruly cobwebs and such.
the fumes cause me to wonder “where is my world,
which i’ve fondled so dearly?”
i detox and recycle memories, it’s to no worth of you
a venomous whisper on a silver lining of a dream tells you everything:
a fanatic’s agenda degrading urbane,
a plummeting depth to deep impact,
i drift away on a molten lava lilypad, and fantasize that...
i am god
but i haven’t found time to juggle your sect
reissuing lessons to mind the sheriff
and i cannot bear to lead me, to my own cultural death.
i cannot receive your moral disease, a signal on my knees
con e preghiere sbiancante. can’t you understand it?
my life is spent with hope placed
on each pair of snake eyes i roll
chance is the meter for everything.
dare i dare go back to my fantasizing,
i am god
ashamed by the lack of hope, and regret
disgraced by the hate and intolerance of man
and i see now their perfect world, is everything i detest.
and the tears produced
form new embryos of emotions
crystalline structures of psychological proportions
which develop into mature,
sentient, and emotion-proof organisms.
which become i.
and i respond vehemently yet come to my senses in a diplomatic tone,
because i am a diplomat.
and i have learned to nail my destiny to an altar each night,
an altar which can sacrifice my pensive motives
and my self-incriminating philosophy
that i should be able to write my destiny, and not
have it planned and read aloud,
read out loud, out in the air, outside.
i try myself.
i tempt myself.
and i return to supplicated suffering about my own mortality
and the atoms i will never see
and the universe i will never span
and the people i will never meet
and the times i will never live.
what if i rivered thirty silver-coins:
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
what if i
didn’t
?
i might be ****** for this: but i’ll still set fire to the catacombs.
i might be scourged for this: but i’ll still hold on,
hoping there’s skin on my bones.
ecclesia, – a common, a sanctuary, a vanguard from the darkness in the world.
i know what i should do but never ever get it done;
i know what i have been and what i will become.
not defined by a dimension nor reputed by a benchmark
but shaded by the passion and dissuaded by the lashes.
i’ll do anything you want me to,
if you **** the self-inflicted psalms i plead!
the ulcer grows
that sweet cologne
i ***** it into the unknown.
i won’t tax your soul, i won’t stick a price to it:
coins ◌◌◌◌◌ won’t fill the hole -in a business deal (assets corrode)
i won’t tax your soul (i won’t buy it with blood money ◌◌◌◌◌, no)
it’s yours alone (but in business deals,
deficit is prone)
and there’s an aspect {a static} of forever and the inescapable gap
between the conscious
and the desired.
i sit here, ever so comfy and lustrous,
and habitually wait the day
they merge.
my invitations stand clear.
if you cannot come, i’ll wait for you. hidden
in the grillework of my past. but if you cannot come,
i’ll be waiting. hidden in the warmth of our teepee haus,
i’ll wait for you.

if X Marx the spot then why Kant i Locke it up?
*could living hand-to-mouth so long make me so Jung?

Two orchid petals glisten gingerly,
In the ripples of the moving pond

Two stars blaze passionately,
In the sky's veiled moonlight

Two butterflies flutter an auburn dream,
On the lilypad's emerald contrast

And two eyes radiate life and love,
As her cheekbones flush deep scarlet, and her smile steals my breathe.

i am the man that you don't need anymore
just another thing you left behind
in an empty house
i'm still feeling vulnerable
like the forgotten iron with the burnt
face frazzled cord
& i still crave the precious gem
of your soul miserably
because i am a fool
or a hummingbird addicted
to sugar water icicles

i wanted to know where you came from
because my heart wanted to sing to you
like a nervous chickadee
through the bubbly white noise
& champagne static
of the bar where we first met

i wanted to know what you see when you look up
through the state of grace that you live in
if it's only the sun
or 40,000 angels buried
in dust & clouds
so i could write it down
or paint it on a stretched tight canvas
& show you my work

i still want to know where you run to
when the rain comes down
in sheets & your hair
kisses dark streaks
onto your cotton shirt

the moon stays up late to show me
how far down i am in the galaxy
of freckles dusted across your shoulders
your hair is a fiery tangle of comet tails
escaping in knots from my wet fingers
your body is a mystical
collection of dark matter
screaming blue eyes &
all i ever wanted was
to be destroyed by the
cyanide on your lips

i filled the bathtub with purple swan orchids &
sprawled out on the opulent karastan rug
like a lame duck waiting on a lilypad
for your footsteps & fingers to astonish me with
dizzy incandescence

On the surface of her eyes,
An algal pool in full bloom.
He wades in with his lashes, caught,
Stumbles around in the fishing nets
Soaked to the knee.

The place in which the oxygen should be
Is choked up now, perplexed, verdant,
A floating city of jealous skirts
Buffeted by a harsh March wind...

And further down, he has her pinned
Tracing paths in shallow waters
Close yet distant to seashell ears
Roughening the lilypad surface
With a single feather.

Through algal bloom, she wonders whether
He'll bother wading down to meet
The covert Atlantis beneath his feet.

"If only I were a toad,
I would be in heaven living on a lilypad."

**© By Amanda D Shelton