.
In a swagger of swirl bones begin,
Bold artist looks back on kept time,
Fierce eyes fencing out from a pen,
So much soul reels unto scrim lines.

i’ve painted gentle pictures on the insides of my mind;
with a water-colored brush, no sense of where to end the lines,
without periphery to guide me, no direction to define
and even less, a sense of definition to entice my eyes.

but as the paint would splatter, there was always more to go,
and once her lovely darling eyes would ask me,
i would find new things to show,
as if they were becoming
an alignment with my own,
she was the only thing that told me
i could find my own lost soul.

and that’s perhaps the reason why
she could not stay to see
if she could be the one
to really help myself find me.

but i’ll always be
...searching,
for more
of it

1
Her thick  dark eyebrows did cast a spell first,
they are stuck there like vampire bats,
they both symbolize  a sinister plot, kept secret,
with a 'come hither' prompt, none can resist.

She attracted artists in hordes, crazy moths,
never did they look above her face,the serpents,
lay tangled and acted as if it's smooth coiffure.
Wicked lust,aroused by bitter past,
                                    made her move with keen  intent
an invisible net she carried behind her back.
She attacked at opportune moments, pretending
she is a lover, with insatiable lust in boil.
2
All crafted lies, simultaneously,she artfully solicited,
       colored moths, in her slow fire, they burned, one by one,
but one remained stuck there for life, fearing rejection every moment.
A crop of heads she reaped , wherever she went,
a kite was ever ready to fly her victim-hood colors higher and higher,
that made admirers **** in their breath and stoop,
before her to her advantage, she had no dearth for volunteers any time.
Burning words made her chants fly like fire works,
her collection of heads turned stones by admiring her
increased, as a huntress she was an ace
stuffed in her cubbyhole of a heart, heads of stone languished.
3
Medusa,you don't have sisters,
I count it the luck of those  unborn
how beautiful, you once were I still remember,
though no sun visited the north you spent your childhood.
Run, run my feared beauty, to the sun, before your heart
get charred by the heat of hatred, you bear in the  Gothic interiors.

4
I hate Perseus, don't you fear your Nemesis?
Every Athena you wrongly think your foe  and fight,
all your hair turned serpents, still I thought, love would work,
without  coming upfront, I kept my flame burning,
but all in vein, you could never love anyone, legitimately or otherwise.
Your blood, all of it, has turned venom, you spit it, slowly
its beauty amazes, even  the victims on the line next...

I'm eyes
in hard transparent plastic
the eye behind my eyes
doing its own viral will
like a demon, an obsessed molestor
I'm in this rush, a stampede of
thoughts like shoulders & breifcases

and now it's totally lost

maybe you didn't think
maybe you wouldn't care
I'd've told you sooner
but couldn't find the word.

She reads Neil Gaimen
by the light through the window,
a facing forward seat on the only train in Greater Anglia
without any heat,
yet still she peruses the pages with
a flick and a ****** and her eyes begin to wander
in marvellous repeating horizontal lines.
She is blonde and reading Neil Gaimen.

Another blonde another book,
this time Mr King under her palm,
spread like her great legs, wide
and easy to read, yet not easily led;
telephone-line straight eyes
on a north country face,
buttoned up below her is a white blouse,
lace-trimming hiding last night’s pudding-
cake baked by a daughter, I heard her conversation earlier:
there was laughter.
She is blonde and reading Stephen King.

nothing to say
I sit
in the dark place with my back split
open.

But no time
believe me darling
and the wounds will heal.