The potted banana tree has borne fruit.
Light, water, fertilizer,
I gave it as needed.
Every day I watched it grow.
Every day it made me happy
to see the potted banana tree
thrive,
and not just survive,
in a place it wasn’t supposed to be.

Clouds cast shadows
on the mountain
Sunlight peeks through
white brume
Wet grass shines
like glass

Out of the
Black veil of night,
Crystals fall,
Dancing
In the icy wind,
Illuminated by
The yellow glow
Of streetlights,
Along the
Winding boulevard.

I fancied burning;
nursed charred fingertips
from placing them between.
lips. I enjoyed love warm.

Love was easier
to kindle with friction
under sheets pre-lit,
shaped by body-heat.

Somewhere, an oasis
is brushing her hair,
is rippling with light,
lush with a fleeting smile.

I found her in autumn
laughing like a creek.
Her hair the color
of poplar leaves afloat.

She, restless, cascading
away and sometimes
over me, cannot
be contained readily.

My other lovers:
they were forest fires,
were all holocausts
filled with sharp facets.

An oasis is still sharp
to the taste. Her kiss
smooth: I can feel it
douse memories of cinders:

her eyes turn soft with mist
within my scorched daydreams.

Only for an instant
can you witness the parting
of the mist over the ocean.

The heavy
pink curtain collapses,
swallowing the wavering shore
in its fumes

divides the sky in separate columns
          of gold and silver
in a single sensual gesture;


no existing border could be made out:
The dunes were a few meters
higher! The sky reached out to us
in the shadow of the water lines.



©2017 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net

Every single one
Would throw fire if they could
And try to forget

Playing cards, a time out of mind...
'Playing with embers', he said,
filled with sun,
in my mind I am already Hell-ward,
to hell.
My cheeks enflamed,
a burnt offering of shame.

As my own darkness engulfed me
I looked to the Archer of Light,
whose blunt bolts (belonging to the bow),
and shrouded, virile, animus intention
has already bore through mine own virtue.
And whose prospering scepter of ambition
I felt, once,
in a dream somewhere,
pressed, blistering against my form.

buried on a monday next to old man Jenkins
a hot summers day
stillness
course grass
the rough hands of strangers
the sound of wood hitting dirt

         the shuffle of tired feet

the soft patters of rain
the distant voice of the city


the unforgettable silence

The lights on inside the house-
The sound of laughter
Chatter
Stories;
Smells of joy
Firewood
Pine
Memories-

the eyes watching the doorway
            -SHUT-
   in awe of a life wished upon

one summer day

This world is like a cigarette-
The peak of it's existence
Burning bright to moon dead eyes,
Crumbling in after a swift breath.