there was no poem neath my pillow

no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch

nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child

two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces

thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them

the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity

his life lies at the bottom of the bottle
a glass body entrapping his soul
one by one, his giggling, gaudy girls
grow up into graceful adults
clinking glasses full of candid celebration
toasting their tranquility into theater walls
as he stands up to take a shaky step
toward the door, toward his girls,
the glass bottle drags him back under

reality abruptly removed the veil
  realization mercifully provided the light
a binary being seeking his own level
  attempting to rise to the surface of himself

if peaceful existence is based on choice
  then personal dogma tablets need chiseling
if afterlife is fashioned from belief systems
  then intimate mysteries need conceiving

dialogue of a dress rehearsal for an actual life
  faithlessly hidden within lines of complexity
alliterated ambiguously, expressed equivocally
  setting the stage for reincarnation's passion play

I once fell for a poetess
A lyricist of songs
She alliterated everywhere
With such cracking shaped diphthongs!

I  am busy chasing serpentines,
figures of eight loiter
at first hesitant then alliterated
before a snarl shakes
off the dew from a Renaissance figurine.
The opposite of azure skies
will proclaim Da Vinci's motivation
But his David is no hero
he presides as resolute
as ecclesial stone.

Back of the room, wallflower, seeing all desires.
A longing look, no, a platonic peek,
an alliterated sonnet generalised as a hello,
pining in clasped hands to avoid burning crimson.
Possibly unrequited, is one totally conceded?
Adolescent secrets in academic stature, controversy is afoot;
Never yours, always mine, promises drawn in the sand.

A rejected invitation, too scared to speak out;
Escapes, unequivocally, with flaming purples ebbing on electric blues.
Tells you no, I’m fine, though there is a fine line
between silently pleading and inwardly bleeding.
How can one be a listener when white noise is the focal?
The walls scream ****** ******, the tiles ooze secrets,
what happens between the first and last, well that is the question,
lay the roses and fly the flag, for he was not to blame.

Starting to break through, or so we thought;
Dazzling disorders glamorized wholly through the eyes of misconception.

The poor boy, they say, he should have known better,
Than to play with fire when he was already scarred,
So much affection with so little comeuppance.
Late nights with no calls,
Strangers turning into dust.

He wondered how he could look okay,
The one he once so dearly loved,
Crying his name in the dark of the night.
Not tonight my love, I have a date with the stars.

As I stay here,
I speculate
In the frontier of thought,
I contemplate
What I brought to the world,
I concentrate
On what I unfurled and now display,
I consummate
What I portray and feel,
I dominate
What I reveal,
I denominate
What is real,
But still,
I nominate
What is surreal,
I oscillate
I change what is ideal for me,
I isolate myself
In the highest degrees,
I desolate
With the finest move of the pen,
What I create.

I state again
With each day I improve,
My lexicon
I dilate,
I’m commenting on
What I approve,
I’m obsessing on
What I want to disprove,
I’m expressing
What I need removed,
I’m blessing
The words I reuse,
I’m addressing
What I deduce.

Words are:
Complicated,
Herds
Of verses,
Cursed,
Voiceless,
Surds and sonants,
Dramatized,
Emoted,
Intoxicated,
Reiterated,
Literal and figurative,
Alliterated,
Raided and stripped naked,
Related,
Equipped,
Gripped,
Awakened,
Jaded,
Created,
And to create.

A beginning
a middle
an end
then again.

Formulaic throughout
to the bitter end.

Try something new
don't let it end
with you repeating
the same old thing again.

Structured perfectly
a copy cat's excuse
studying rhymes
he could never write
even if given
'til the end of time.

It's not because it's telling
it's just telling of you
thinking in another man's cursive
hiding that you have none
and would never know what to do.

Where's the message
your meaning is lacking
just alliterated sonnets
hiding an absence of depth
in you.

Something sweet left on the bedside table,
not within arm's reach, but I stretched anyways-
adipose weight alliterated against the sheet,
pectoral garage grunge sounds because the sand
is still puckered in my eyes which adjust
to the helix of light over time;

light, like lavender talc branched in.
My wrist flinched from the cold metal ****
of a compartment under the chestnut top
with papers spread expeditiously.
With my hand scampering for a sign
I splintered the squeak of a rickshaw.

A shy crow pretended to dodge a bullet outside the window;
right thumb still wasn't ready to draw the pattern
that unlocks my phone, but we do things
when we wake up and look beside ourselves
for warmth. We hadn't exchanged numbers,
but you'd left yours in a text, with an invitingly pale font.

Your lips left perfumed migraines where you kissed me,
but that's a good thing.