My room does not
evolve or become;
it morphs instantly and before your eyes.
Things move and fly they burn and cry.  

I watch as a dust devil conquers invades
Two minutes later,
waltzing brooms on parade.

I stuff my room full of
glass metal wood.
Some would say hoarding
I reply misunderstood.

Most of the glass is pretty much broken,
the wood is all scorched, the metal contorted.
All of its stays because my hand has spoken.

My room is a magical place replete with spirits and souls and little doors to inner-space.

It likes to listen to music, the scent of a dog... It begs to get ****** off a good Sensi fog.

My room inspires my hands to create...
Whether with torches or pencil, hammers or lathes.

I often ponder
what will become
of my room when I die?
Perhaps as I come back
to bid farewell....
I'll leave a piece of my soul to guard it at night

I would rather write
About this world than
Live in it

I would rather play
Music all day and read
Or wander around

Or waltz into bookstores
And run my hands along
The wooden shelves

I would rather remain
Indifferent to the world
That exists around me

I would rather watch
Humans than actually
Be one of them.

Two dancers entangled
Found themselves in flight
Magnets across hips
They collided in the night.

He lifted his hand and
She opposed open palm
Their breaths synchronized,
They shot off arm in arm

Their sways became one
Their footwork a mirror
But while chests warmed with passion,
Their minds became clearer.

Their smiles dissolved,
Though it might be perfection...
Alas they let go–
Each despised their reflection.

Twisted, complicated steps
Of a graceful waltz;
I’d fall if not for my partner;
Where? I’m not sure.
I’d say into the dark, but its day.
If only I weren’t afraid to be lost.
Wandering mind, twirling thoughts,
Startling clarity, the center of the eye.
I see only a jagged edge of red ribbon,
Caught fast in your affectionate hands,
Woven from our bleeding hearts.
I could be bound tight by you;
Blinded by spinning visions,
Of a maddening waltz
The strings of music bind and tighten.

In the viscous ichor of tryptophan
Steal me away for a moment
Lead my endless toes
Eyes behind a waving fan

In an empty ballroom, paired electron
share our energetic light
In the everlasting yearning mind

With regal flow you go
Silk water against the door
Dream of me you sweet pea
Soon again with you I'll be

It hates for me to see you go
a fake alone particulate door
Dream of you far past adieu
And yet let no man aware of thee.

Darling,
take my hand and
dance with me.

Let’s perform the graceful art of painting lines on the floor with every swift move.
We spin around the dance floor, that has now become our home.
Softly, holding our bodies close.
Not too close,
but close enough.

Let us waltz into each other’s hearts with every step.
And with every movement let us prove our love.
A love for everyone to see.
Dance partners that were clearly meant to be.

Let’s dance salsa.
And no... I don’t mean the kind for chips.
The rhythmic salsa that makes our hearts beat out of our chests and intertwine with every note.
The salsa that causes the adrenaline in our bodies to rush as we follow every beat.

Let us practice our seduction through a heated tango.
As we caress each other’s bodies and souls.
Intensely loving and never wanting to let go.
A tango that will set our feelings on fire.

Darling,
Dance with me, please.
One last time before you leave.

Not too old to dance
Not too big to rumba
Not passing up the chance
To feel a little younger

Learning brand new steps
Hearing brand new beats
Sensing strange new rhythms
Finding both my feet

Using unused muscles
Controlling my meander
Feeling a new freedom
To release the inner dancer

Old friends say they knew
The dancer sleeping there
They recognised the steps
From long forgotten years

So whilst I can't regret
The years I waltzed around
I'm pleased to take these steps
And retake my long lost ground.

She rises and falls like a reposed breath
before an entire world's visage
in her encircled arms.
The incandescent glow of the stage
has an intoxicating quality to it,
the music being
something liquid, viscous.

As notes thrum in tender and soothing caresses,
her legs supple, twirl like petals
cascading under the weight of raindrops,
giving way to a lush surrender
steeped in a language of love and need.
Her very fire
and impassioned soulfulness
lifts her up above the crowd itself,
burning for all to see.

In this moment now
her timelessness enraptures me.
Another part of myself awakens to her grace
and renders me
gratefully whole.
A sense of euphoria slow dances its way
from her being to mine,
consuming every piece of my body
in a fiery bloom—
charging me with
a crackling, electrifying force
unlike my mere own.

I can see now
that this is what she was born to do—
to be on pointe, seeing everything.
Any instances of worldly fear
is left to the dying.
The rhythms of her old pains,
tribulations of past destructions,
are now buried beneath her feet.
And her radiant smile while she dances
still speaks to me gently—
that to be free
is to be wonderfully lost
in her waltz with destiny.

© BT

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward.
Yesterday is so far, and the party is done;
Gone are the petits fours and the sound of the drums.

Today the wine is red and I push with my thumbs
Some leftovers of bread on the table, some crumbs.
Wasps are nibbling the grapes and the time can’t rewind:
How cold are the graves; I am losing my mind.

They’re clicking the laughters and clapping all the bones;
Their pidgins are swishers in cages of the zoos:
Mariette and Amir went all the way up there,
– Like an old souvenir – and it makes me shiver.

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward.
Amir was a poet and Mariette a dove.
Who can tell that the death is watching out for love?

Yesterday the river saw us throwing some stones,
And drinking cans of beer. The sunlight and the glows
Of tiny water hints: we had to fold the eyes.
Who can tell that omens were these water lilies?

Mariette was wearing her pretty yellow pearls,
Her simple golden ring. The long mane and the curls
Of Amir, and his mood, were like hot butterflies
They were so young and proud: Why can't I stop my cries?

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward.
Of what kind is this waltz, this triple meter dance,
This strange time with no source, which always starts and ends?

Yesterday, tomorrow; this day: a stunning ride
On horses of sorrow where I cried as a child.
Knucklebones of my hands, and my feet in the snow:
Of what kind are these wounds spoiling red my pillow?

Mariette cried and laughed, this all at the same time,
As Amir depictured the story of their fine
And very first kisses under the almond tree.
Their sweet and calm faces have fired poetry.

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward…

(c) Quitterie Kerlach