What do you do
When all you can
Do is wait
For her voice
To sing the song
Of your open heart
Awaiting the calling
Of something unknown
Yet something you wish
Will love you for a thousand
Times, a thousand years
What do you do
When you are open to
Love, yet are endlessly lost
As to the reciprocal
Force of the lover you
So desperately seek
What do you do
When you have died
Everyday, waiting for her
Heart to beat back at
You, and your loving soul
More than just beauty
She captures you entirely
Wrapping her soul essence
Very being, around your
Awaiting heart mind soul
Your body craving only
Her.

© Sia Jane

She wraps her claws around me
An embrace I cannot resist
She has taken my heart soul mind
I'm trapped under & below her spell
Without recognition from her
I fall at her feet

Her beauty indescribable
Her heart as open as ocean waves
Hitting the shore & returning
Always in due course
Leaving me awaiting the touch
Of merely just a taste of water

She leaves with unspoken undertones
A beating empty heart left behind
Only desiring the sound of her voice
So tall strong, wrapped around me tight
Thinking she's the one to borrow the heart
Behind these blue eyes baby loved

Open to love, carrying a trusted heart
On the sleeves of her dress beaded close
Her offer awaits, her silent cries hope
For her heart, not voice, to be heard
By the one she has fallen
Under the spell of

© Sia Jane

Drifted skies
Parted hearts
Holding hands
Souls never part

This presence that the
World so gave
Somehow is stronger
From the grave

No touch no sight
No camera to hold
A memory
In sight

Sisters chosen from
Where water was far
Thicker than even
The blood we shed

© Sia Jane

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.