His hands are long,
calloused and inviting.
Scars tell stories,
scattered
across his knuckles.

He has one hand cradled in the other,
tapping and rubbing
his palm
with his fingers.

His mind is a jungle:
heavy, sticky, lush,
challenging to navigate,
surrounded by undecayed green
and unobstructed sea.

“Are you anxious?”
His hands are moving rapidly,
yellow parrotbills
flitting in and out of the tall tree trunks
and violet, epiphytic orchids of his mind.

Turning to face me,
he stretches his lips into a smile.
He assures me that he is fine,
but he doesn’t see any birds.

Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.

I called her Molly Bloom.
Then the final blossom fell from Molly
As I sipped over the lip of morning.
She grew on me.

I grow into things as well.
I was once worried about my height,
But I had large feet,
Not to worry.

I grew as the present slipped.
Hair was important
To grow.
It appeared, slowly, on arms,
Pits, lips and legs.
And groin pains followed.
Atrophy and entropy grow,
Take root like my historical assimilations.

I daily **** out apathy.
Molly was different.
She was presented with love,
And received with indifference,
Then I cared too much.
She was my Bloomsday
When I raised her ashen petalled face.
Should I vacation on Reunion Island
Where they make great ***.
I could pestle her blooms to reinvigorate myself.
Or kid myself, believing her shadow
Will open in the sun.

Explore the timid quiet night life;
Hear the billows of the gushes of the wind
And the orchestra of the grasshoppers
Within the blades of the knee-high grass.
And as the fairies and nymphets,
Dance under the umbrellas and mushrooms
And the star-clusters of constellations,
Walk past through the lane where lovers embrace,
And you, all alone, with no lover or so,
Just have to fall in love with whatever there is
To fall in love with.
The wax of Artemis, and the wane of Diana
Beams at you in static cinema-like spotlight;
The ghost of a girl with a battered heart
And the dew-damp earth and rain
On an empty 10pm cafè
And the scent of a purple paradox,
Oh, it’s death and so lively magic,
Fill the night.

Pick a petal,
And pick another one
And feel the stardusts coming into life.

Shards of broken glasses
Strewn all over the floor
Shattered dreams all over
Jagged edges of regret
Once held with affection
Held the fragrant flowers
Special Cymbidium Orchids
It’s pristine presence felt
Adorned the corsage
Now, lay shattered
No place for the Orchids
Wailing of broken dreams
Now, memories linger

I like my women like I like my flowers,
down to Earth, and she’s rooted to the concept.
From her orchard, orchids cry out that she’s
a beauty. A beauty as bold as baby’s breath
but she’s not soft-spoken. It’s written in her
blue-eyed, irises that she’s a stargazer
with a heart made of marigolds, laced together
by Queen Anne. She sprouted out of that cracked
cement with tulips curled to the cosmos, greeting
morning glories with a stellar smile, that I fell for
like a shooting star. She’s a bloomed-beauty that’s
bound to this Earth, and well, I’d pick her up any day.

© Matthew Harlovic

She assumes I don't care
And all that she does
Ends up in cruel despair.

She puts up a show
And buys me a bow
Until she feels empty, sad and low.

In a box that I chose
That smells of orchids so special
Lies the bow, like a rose.

For all that she ponders yet knows not
The times that we've spat and fought
Will remain as memories that shan't rot.

For on a pedestal she stands
In my heart, deep and within
'Cause I'm an angel in her hands.