"coaxes" poems
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.
I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.
I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.
I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.
I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.
I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.
I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.
I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.
Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.
I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 6:27 AM UTC
Too long this rot has run its course, too much the damage done
When men deflect acknowledged glance, they know that wrong has won.
Across this land and far afield the wrongness seeps within
And pride becomes a memory through distant halls of spin.
How can we bow to tyranny, how can we shy away
From that which causes eyes to slide.... and coaxes will to sway?
To tolerate the bombast, the bullying, the lies
Succumbing to a hopelessness, which, both we despise.
Division in the nation, uproar in between
A man and wife’s contention-ness beyond what should be seen
Brothers loathing brothers, silence in the room
Where a word uttered wrongly can erupt to screaming soon.
Allies left in tatters, trust is cut to shards
Tariffs injudiciously, imposed to **** the cards.
International uproar, industry in strife
Teetering disastrously when NATO flees the knife.
Putin sits and rubs his hands, hilarious the show
Disorder and disharmony to lubricate his glow.
Beijing sits inscrutably, always opportune
Manoeuvring judiciously, in place, to call the tune.
America, the isolate, sails away to sea
Blondini, at the helm, wears smirk indulgently.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON NZ
12th July 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
Hope, A dangerous thing I might think.
Wins wars, Kills thousands, influences stocks, Keeps people alive,
DRIVES GREED, inspires the young, slowly coaxes suicide,
starching the past and paves the futures paths.
It can be exploited and Used, broken and bruised.
Shining through the darkness while strangling the few.
Its rain every day.
The lonesome star peaking through the clouds on a dreary night.
It’s the glimpse of sun following the darkness.
Revolution is its son and independence are it its daughters.
IT’S LOVE
Knowledge that there’s more or that it’s all over, Knowledge of the Unknown.
Its leaving the light on when no one’s coming home
Its tears that are not wasted, every drop alive with expression.
It’s lingering scents of distant memories, people and places.
Its wanting. Waiting. Needing.
It’s all over. Or is it?
It’s Hope
Quite dangerous indeed.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
She moves him ‘round the chess board,
dodging bishops, pawns and rooks.
She coaxes him from square to square
without a second look.
The white knight cannot catch him.
Piece by piece, the foe now yields.
Her king is safe; the game is done.
The queen controls the field.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:47 PM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.
The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.
Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.
Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.
Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.
Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
Silence Speaks to us
Whispers Creep across our beings
And dance through the pain of melancholy
That we have named
Quiet
It can strike a blow in our memories
And still land softly
In the weakness of our hearts
Holding it ever closer
It makes our heart and mind lie together
With passion
Forcing its way out and
Conceiving the very justice of emotions
That only moments
Of balance amongst chaos
Can hold together
It screams insecurities,
Pounding at the doors of madness
Our
Consciousness begs to escape be it by way of sleep or death
But we have escaped far too long
And our prison debt is far overdue
It must be paid in full before
The true silence
Welcomes us into its
Open arms
But it repeatedly coaxes on with siren song
Promising peace and refuge
WAIT!
Silence gently places the fortifications of tranquility
upon our back as we lie on our stomachs
trying to shake off the weight of the world.
Through the very din of silence,
listen carefully
and pick out the comforting words of voices
voices long lost in the chasm of a memory we still have no control over
This silence may yet succumb to you
Open up to you
As you have been exposed for long enough
Then those screams
Those howls
Bellows
Those shouts
Will recede to
Love songs and crackling fires
And it will be silent
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
A midnight poet,
she calls herself.
Because the cascading words,
come to her
wrapped up in shiny moonlight,
served on blankets of darkness,
stars dusted lightly on top.
Her inspiration
rides the midnight breeze
swiftly and gently
to her window,
waiting patiently for her
to lift the glass up
and greet them warmly.
So there she sits,
next to the open window
waiting for the perfect moment
to say hello.
To invite her loyal inspiration in
for some midnight tea,
and although she says
she’s not fond of midnight snacks
She pours herself
a steaming mug of metaphors
and serves couplets
with the drink.
After a comfortable chat,
Inspiration takes its leave
out the window
on the breeze in which it came.
And so the girl
is left lonely once more,
but not truly alone.
She has her words,
her rhymes,
her metaphors,
and her couplets
to keep her company
as she forms it all
into beautiful verses
that capture the heart.
As she sits by her window,
the midnight poet
notices how soft the sky looks,
dark and freckled with stars.
The sweet sky comforts her
as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses,
or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness
as she writes
or simply sleeps
by her window.
The midnight poet
sighs gently
catching the wily night’s attention
And draws poetry from its
calming,
yet sly,
grin.
The girl catches falling stars
made of verses
from her pretty window seat.
She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets,
makes metaphors from the moonlight,
comfortable in the darkness’s embrace.
The midnight poet
coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky
And tucks it into her pocket
For safekeeping.
To keep
as an ever loyal
companion.
A reminder
of her home.
A poem of the night.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:42 AM UTC
A growing sickness
Flowing through my veins
Burning away inside, eating me away
As the darkness takes over from within.
Lapses in sanity, I find myself lying
In cold sweat, falling through the chasm
And I know its only a matter of time
Before the demon inside has arisen.
A manic bloodlust takes over my being
I ache for the violence to be set free.
In their dead eyes, I see reflections of mine
A murderous gleam shining within
As my face stretches into a smile that isn’t mine.
Every fibre of my being, repulsed by myself
Petrified by the beast I have become
I cry out in pain and anguish
As I feel Him taking over again.
Under the light of the gibbous moon
I revel in my madness, as her
Screams goad me on and take me
To the precipice. I stand grinning at
Her broken,bloody form in the earth
As she whimpers a pathetic plea for mercy.
No one knows of my disease; He only
Claims my body for himself in the dark
Leaving me behind to feel the horror and disgust
In the cold, grey sunlight.
Every night I struggle inside
I fight against my inner devil, pleading
For reason and humanity to return
To the twisted ******* I have become.
He stretches my face into a wide smirk
Reminding me of that exquisite, repulsive
Scent of flowing gore; He coaxes me,
He cajoles, He beckons me to join Him
As my will weakens and my body surrenders.
And so ends my tale, I have lost myself
To the contorted insanity I bred inside.
Horrified, repulsed, revolted with my being
My death only entices me now
Promising relief from my unholy illness.
But I know that small comfort is lost on me
Eventually, He’ll possess me entirely
And in the remorse of this truth I lie
And I feel Him return inside, eagerly awaiting my demise
No more can I hold out against Him.
No more can I wear the mask of Jekyll.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
Imagine,
A slippery, charcoal, behemoth of a rock
Lying dormant, as if sleeping,
Under the comfort of a seabed.
Waves are crashing onto
The shoreline,
Rippling across the weightless,
Unblemished sand
As though it were hair
Gently being pushed across your face
The almost unnoticeable,
Yet constant breeze
Of the in and outs of your breath
Are the only constant left.
Small indents,
The size of dimples
Are the only remains visible
A last and final reminiscent memory
Of the grace that was once there.
An almost tranquil sendoff
As the water gets pulled back into the expanse
An expanse as deep and as beautiful
As the locks of your hair.
Unconscious thoughts dart through my mind
As quickly as the most nervous fish
Conjuring pictures and images
As vivid as Van Gogh’s
Streaked with lost and quickly forgotten words
Like a smoothed out seashell
Pulled under and out into the sea
To a place more wondrous than the eye will ever see
The shells float away,
Making one last attempt to stay above the water’s surface
To stay conscious.
But the smell of the air,
Mixed with the comfort of the water
Coaxes it back
Like a siren’s song.
Under those waves,
Beautiful waves,
The same everlasting and flowing haven I have fallen into
,
The endless,
unexplored, untouched,
Flawless shelter of your locks.
The ones that gently touch against my sand-colored skin
Lulling me and inviting me to drift away,
Away, back into the expanse of a dreamland
One almost as endless
As the ocean of us.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
I like his voice, his laugh, the bravery that he unintentionally coaxes out of me.
I like the shape of his mouth and the softness of his lips.
I like the way that he walks;
hands in his pockets and facing the floor.
I like the length of his eyelashes and the freckle on his ear
that I once mistook for a piercing.
He is beautiful, so beautiful.
But the words that tumble from him are twisted and cruel,
He is not soft and golden like the hairs on the back of his neck
that my fingertips know all too well.
The butterflies in my stomach are trapped bats
which tear up my insides when he smiles at me.
I crave his outsides, as he craves mine.
He filled a gap, and now it is time for him to leave.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
My favorite mistress
is red
round
and rotund.
She fell in love
with the tomato
on the windowsill
yet could not feel his touch.
Supposing she could change it,
she decided to
blush
for all eternity.
Now,
she coaxes in a Mr.
Earl Grey.
He slips into my bedroom
He infuses my space.
My mistress invites him
in with her song.
High and coarse,
yet
of it I will never tire.
Sing!
Sing!
Sing!
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
An owl of fine repetition,
Coaxes me with ancient persuasion.
His allure of virtue, facile in nature,
Reaches the darkest corners of pure being.
The simple white noise masks my thoughts;
Screaming so loud
The euphoric sound cannot be fought.
The masses flow towards the falsity of ease,
But simple is a contradiction
And erudition blossoms from anomaly,
Which the white owl cannot see.
Imperceptible to those beguiled,
And deaf to the enthralling calls,
Seduction cannot overthrow me
And Temptation remains illusory.
I shy away from no fabricated Baphomet,
Facing desolation and veracity.
Exposing myself and my entity,
My eyes cannot be shut.
Am I seduced by contumacious ignorance?
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Bipolar love
sings dreams and
nightmares to me,
It coaxes me into
awakeness,
and paralyzes
me into sleep.
It becomes it,
because I fear it--
Becomes unspoken
and ignites an anger
so vulnerable I melt
into cursed tears.
It swallows me whole,
uses me and spits
me out~ empty is
how I feel,
I wonder,
Ever so often,
How it was I
drifted into this
endless sleep.
I faintly hear
a click,
like a bullet
leaving a pistol.
I wonder who it
hit.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
“Looking for a walking buddy”
The invitation looms as I scroll through pages of personal ads
Filled with sensitive insight, too intimate for idle voyeurs browsing.
The computer’s hypnotic glow, dousing my cheeks in pale light, coaxes me to search
To rummage through human advertisements and peruse desperate expositions
Behavior quite unlike the pastimes that others might imagine me participating in
Behavior quite unlike the nightly activities I usually partake in
Such as sleeping
Won’t I give up this useless quest for nothing in particular,
And surrender my body to the ruthless aches creeping into my muscles and joints?
I’ll wait for assurance that my grazing has meaning–
I’ll linger to assign significance to this arbitrary curiosity, even into the early morning
Eventually, I’ll resolve to the conclusion that there is somewhere an assembly of people squinting in thought, trying to justify this same bizarre inquisition
We the people, hunched over luminous monitors, “looking for something more”
We who have specific and lewd requests for the opposite ***
We nosing congregation, mysteriously drawn to the Strictly Platonic section of the personals
Should try our luck with a walking buddy
And wander away.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:47 AM UTC
Never been sure who to be
Never been sure who to believe
Who am I supposed to trust?
Who am I supposed to keep my distance from?
Why isn’t there a handbook
Indicating who is a demon and who is an angel?
You can see the halos when you’re up there,
But don’t they know that down here we can’t see a thing?
Demons and angels all look the same to me
And if the only way to see the difference is up there,
I’ll have to take my chances
I’ll probably pick the wrong choice,
Just like flipping heads or tails,
And only then I get to see the difference
The problem is that
By that point,
I’ll be seeing it from down there
Because knowing me
I’ll pick heads over tails
Leading me to walk over to the sweeter looking one
Who smiles and waves in such a reassuring way
Who coaxes me into evil intentions
Yet I don’t mind
Because, oh lord, what a beautiful voice
So rich and full and inviting…
And lying
Lying Lying Lying
Every single word is a lie
I say, “Let’s go down that path
With all the trees and butterflies”
Then you say, “No, that road scares me,
Let’s take the darker one”
So I go along
Since I have learned that you’re always right
The path gets darker with every step I take
And soon it’s not a road but an inky black cloud
I can’t see
“Where are you!?”
Fear grows inside me
Then I see you:
Blood red eyes, leather wings, daggers for teeth
You laughed then, an evil, bone-chilling cackle I’ll never forget
As you approached, folding your sickening wings around me,
I knew where I was going
Finally now I can tell the difference:
The halos from the claws
Except this isn’t exactly where I wanted to be
I’m not up there
Although, through the process,
I have learned that you don’t always get what you want
Now, all I get to do is watch as more victims get roped in
Lured by the fake smiles and seducing faces
And I can’t do a single thing about it
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
The collateral coaxes of God on Man,
Bring forth the froth of Goth on sand.
When existence means meaningless breathings,
Why do we try and see the reasoning’s of dreams.
Because the faces inside of these traces;
Memories of the outcast on the plains of the membrane.
Taking to the stars in a ship of bars,
Withholding the pain from exploding, while somewhere my mother is tokin’
And it goes faster and faster than fast, and these lines take on the attack,
Of a thousand gazelles in flight to tomorrow’s past fright.
There is no truth just perspective and respectively speaking I’m speaking about respect.
Abhor me as you adore me; please me as you use me, take me as you break me.
I am the ocean as I am the sky, blue crashing on white, trying to live my life,
But I’m failing at every turn and it burns and there is no learn only do and do not.
This life is a series of failures entwined in a not so heavenly knot,
And its okay as long as I’m dead, I say sir let’s travel to the bay, and maybe by the end of the day…
I’ll find my one true love in a tub of emotional regret and without worry or fret,
I’ll take her in my hands and kiss her with my face, just givin’ her a taste…
Of a man wondering if painkillers can take away the heartache.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
escape with me, starry-eyed
a smoky shadowland
where sin is infinite
hell warmly embraced
and lust a syrupy *****
desire is so crookedly pristine
when untouched by
the ugly delusion you call love
luring, seducing
the inky ebony of eve
coaxes us sweetly, chillingly
to join its empty prisoners --
passion aches
inject me with your raven smoke;
crave me,
consume me
come and dip with me in the night
where our veiled vices can find relief;
its venom will feed my impure nocturne
and your wicked clutches can snake into
the perverse piths of my phantasm and person.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC
52 Weeks: Whitman
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
52 Weeks: Mullein
The Red-Tailed hawk swoops by and catches just a glimpse, he tilts his head Dionysian style mouth slightly agape.
I too am a wild thing, I too am untethered,
And I sound animalistic in the dining halls of the tamed.
The final missile thud holds me in a sweet caress,
My likeness rockets earthward … tried and true and tired and truer,
I am coaxed into existence once again.
I maintain my aetheric ties as I know this is the roadmap back to you,
It’s nice to be enmeshed in the living once again even though they drain,
To drain is to live, one gives eternity to be mortal - it’s the only thing that ever made sense.
I won’t depart, I dig in my heels,
And I turn my back on the organized.
I am of the earth because I understand my antecedents … my mother’s mother’s mother …
And because of this knowledge of ante’s I can set prece’s, hopefully precisely.
I hardly know who I am or what I mean (on a good day),
But I am good for you none the less,
As our tastes and sounds and smells and touches intermingle.
And always I wait patiently,
for me for you,
for us.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
I know what I do not know
when my woman holds me,
tells me she loves me, not
for what I can no longer give,
but for the man I've been and am.
She knows I do not know
how to love the way she can
and does, and still loves me
the only way she knows.
Aware of just how small is
the seed of trust I sow,
she waters, shelters,
coaxes the thin weak sprout
and begs me not to fear her.
She did not take the name
of an aging, broken man,
but holds it as proudly
as she holds my hand
while walking at my side.
I know that I do not know
how she knows what she knows
and still can love as deeply
as only she knows how.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
her dress is made of molten ore
silk against her springy skin
her eyes are pressured pebbles of summer core
nine hundred lives from wearing thin
the scarf she wound around her hips
softer than a lamb
the teeth behind upturned boat lips
smile graceful and pre-planned
she extends her long, slender wrist
coaxes us all into one mineral
a tender jewel, a pretty twist
worn until her funeral
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
- I -
I am Death
and I am sorry.
Sorry that I robbed you
of your youth
your vigor and your
vitality.
I am sorry that I gave you days
and months and years of black
days and months and years
better spent under the sun
dancing in the rain
prancing in the snow.
I am sorry that I robbed you
of your very first love
your child, your sister
your mother or father
your one care in the world.
I am sorry that I took away
those things that were the
light of your life
the salt of your earth
whether those be tangible
or intangible.
I am sorry for all this and more.
- II -
But this is what I do.
This is the burden that Fate and
Destiny have placed upon my
shoulders.
This is the task that has been
assigned to me by the cosmos.
The universe needs a Reaper
a Soul-Harvester
a Life-Taker
and that’s me.
Death.
It is my unfortunate task to remind
you – man, woman and child
that you are not invincible.
I am an omnipresent reminder of
your own mortality
an ever-present red ribbon
tied around your finger.
Believe me when I tell you that
I enjoy it very little
and detest it very much.
That I should be the one who
coaxes your tears from your eyes
burns my soul – MY soul.
Yes,
I have one, too
however hardened it may be after
all these years.
That I should have to swoop in to
your homes, your hospital wards,
your cars, barge in on your meals,
your vacations, your special time
with loved ones
is, to me, awful, a sin.
Me stealing from you those years,
people and other things from you
is vagrancy, indecency, criminal.
Nothing less.
- III -
I, Death, am a vagabond.
A cold hearted ******* A demon borne
in the fiery pits of Hell.
I am cruel, calculating and ruthless
with impeccable timing, I know it.
I know it, and yet I have not the heart
to give up what I do.
It is the only thing I know.
But every day that I do it is a day
where my heart aches.
My heart aches
and it has for some time now.
It is a pain of which I shall never be
rid. I am sure of it.
Would you believe me if I told you
that I listen to your pleas?
Your moaning, your agonized begging,
your take-me-not-hers, your why-him-not-me’s
fall on ears.
Attentive ones
listening ones.
I promise you, I hear you, and I hold your
hearts in my hands.
But I just cannot give you what they seek.
It would be unfair.
Me letting your brother live and not
his would be unbalanced, unnatural
unseemly, unprofessional.
Mercy defeats the purpose of death.
Mercy defeats the purpose of me
and I hate it
but it is so
and that is that.
- IV -
I am Death.
I am black
I am dark
I am night.
I know your secrets, your darkest
ones.
I know what you desire to know.
When you shall die.
I know it.
You all shall die.
I know it.
You know it.
And that scares you.
You are all afraid of me.
Do not lie. I know it. It’s true.
You all think you are doomed.
You think you are doomed?
You are doomed to succumb
to death?
I am doomed to be death.
I am sorry
but I am Death.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
artist's hands press her solidly
to a brilliant kaleidoscope of elegant golden bones and glittering skin;
strong palms resting with easy power
on the pliant wilderness of her hips,
heavenly flesh blossoming recklessly
into lush riots
of honeysuckle and savage roses.
from a little girl's shy smile he coaxes
the untamed laughter and rapturous moans of a grown woman's
wild pomegranate mouth;
licks tears of wondering ecstasy from widening, curious eyes,
pulls from her hips the feral undulations that, unchecked,
could unravel a tyrant's paradise.
he offers knowledge,
a sticky, illicit fruit into which she sinks
her
pretty white teeth.
deep crimson juice flows in starry rivulets
from softly parted lips to heaving ribs,
traverses gently a milky expanse
of breath and taut muscles,
halting to illuminate suddenly
a glowing womb,
freshly radiant with new life.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC