I’d like to see a god clustered on knees from a threshold
A god tossed placid, hoisted with the bed on moraine bruises
used to be gifts for mortals.
Then hair of immortal chestnut must fade, under
promises of cobwebs to lay instead
Blood or no blood, that’s how an outcast ever stays;
rags of dark silk hanging on shoulders barely like a river betrayed,
sick taps on the door that’ll shut,
there will be no milk for the dark where the face can be found.
See a daffodil as a lip turns into a petal
I bite, tatter, then soothe, and water with salt, start again
See the petal munch the gold that god in my eyes and hairs has dull,
and with that bud in violet space placed catch me lash;
How to keep heart in chest yet sane outside of ****** of purple?
How to make love to you without falling into the perverse?
Just “paper bone” on tongue all over.
I chose to witness a human and a dragon trespass a boundary
where two souls throbbingly mingling meant more than the surface shaking,
than physiognomy waging.
As theatre, a flesh, heart salved, split, the boy’s ****** was glimpsed
unhideable to the beast with every life scar licked.
I choked and drowned on my own breath.
Get that undeemable oneiric into the light;
that’s how my essence bare put on everything
becomes water and fights as you see
for its burning to exist.
Will you dare to take it into fingers as it lives and gives?
The world’s only curiosity store.
that as you who’d know sole what form a tux on stage lets me be,
clapping underneath you’re the one who’s ever been into those eyes’ rites.
That as a snowflake falling,
a shell of antiquity left in a blue coastless plain;
I was born as a too big honour, for effervescence,
clasp me in your palms as you won’t last till my forever,
like I, try not to have your ocean heartbroken when
that shell speaks in your robbed memoir, pain out of that place.
Asking how to break the barrier between our bodies,
How to be my flame and still my ashtray?
hand in your body.
It’s you. It’s me.
After Reinaeiry’s “It’s You It’s Me It’s Us”,
Philip Matthews “Made To Always Worship At One Station”
and one human that deserves a heart of her own
Of passion beyond human body and own conscience that finds a hold in one beautifully broken human.
All my loves for the Valentines my dear.