I could write a hundred things
Detailing how much I love you.
How I love the cheeky grin you get
All the way up to your soft, almond eyes,
When you catch me staring,
And the dimples under peach fuzz
That invite my kiss.

I could relay a thousand cliches
Describing what we have-
Like how you were made for me-
They must’ve been written for us.
How when I’m with you, everything else fades away,
Past and present, all I see is you.
The world is ours.

But you, my dear, you notice everything.
Like my favourite things about Autumn,
And the places, deep in the countryside, I like to go to escape.
When you’re in the driver’s seat,
Singing me the songs your dad showed you when you were younger,
Life is content.
I can’t believe my luck.

I could try a million ways to express
How much you mean to me,
But words cannot suffice.
The mere poetry and prose I adore so, won't compare.
So just lay with me.
Hold me in your arms.
Listen and feel the secrets beating in my heart.

Je t’aime, te quiero,
I love you.

I have been cursed by the spell of Aphrodite.
No matter how much wrong you do,
I am a fool blinded by you.
You could drag my soul through the waters of Styx,
with a spell so powerful that it would delude me to think Tartarus itself was greater than Olympus.
I can no longer speak your name upon my lips,
for whenever I do, it is an incantation to you.

Yet no matter how much I curse your name,
I cannot help but to be in awe of your beauty.
Your mere memory itself makes me fall deeper into your spell.
I am a madman, longing for just a whiff of your perfume.
I curse your name, but in the shadows I worship you.
Never have I seen true beauty until I looked upon your face.
How I curse Aphrodite for working through the vessel that is you.

~a unconscious commissioned poem~

<>

La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur

advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede

we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those,  we are
best at
confessing in

first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams

Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end

the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding

is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations

morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness

Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…

and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)

<>
commissioned by Pradip

7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds

<>

music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion

What is a muse
If not what we imagined him to be.
What the sculptors carved at
stony, stoic frames.
Don’t think, they say,
You’ll crumble.

He is not worshiped as myth
Have us believe.
He is the sacrificial lamb
Bleeding ambrosia at the altars
Of Tragedy
And Art.

The gods steal kisses,
Greedy grab-fulls of delicacy,
Imitating the swan
Like curve of his neck,
The eagle-like majesty.
Did Ganymede not want more for himself? Did not Antinous?

The flight of wax wings
Melt into the sea,
As his skin soaks in the summer sun.
How golden and fragile,
Like the kintsugi vases made of antiquity,
Holding the crosses he must bear.

Biting at his lips,
Spilling languid, divine promises
Of youth-filled love and adoration
Until he is left empty, unheld.
Nectar bleeds from his veins,
And bees fly to his sunflower tattoos,
While he waits among the shades.

Perfection is a curse.
A candle in the wind made only in wait of another’s flame.

In the morning, I woke up to your note on my kitchen counter-
I tore it up.
I don’t want it anymore.
I made tea, which spilt, and then I used the scraps to mop it up.

I washed the bed sheets.
I left the house and traded the kettle for an orange at the market because,
Lately that is what I love. Rind, peel and all.
It was beautiful and ripe; fruit has never tasted so sweet and pure.

The next morning, I walked out into the garden before the sun.
The grass was cool and dewy between my toes.
I covered an orange seed with the soil in my palms.
It was easy. I will grow a tree. I’m glad I exist.

Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand,
And this is the first time I could bring myself to speak about it.
I was a child again, a single mother.  
I didn’t like to think about it one bit.

I write poetry to make beautiful Rorschachs
Of the scars it leaves.

--

Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
She couldn’t face me but when she curled up in her car seat,
And allowed herself to cry under the moon,
It was like looking in a mirror.

From this poem is born ugliness.
No amount of rose-tinted beer goggles or incense could excuse it.

--

Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
Today I reach for the bottle.

Tragic poetic means to an end.
The child I wish I could hold,
Plastered into the yellow wallpaper, I thought:
I am. I am. I am.