boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

She grew tired of her thoughts
and the weaknesses they had found,
So she flicked her embered cigarette;
and burnt them to the ground.

That time of drought the embered air
burned to the roots of timber and grass.
The crackling lime-scrub would not bear
and Mooni Creek was sand that year.
The dingo's cry was strange to hear.

I heard the dingoes cry
in the scrub on the Thirty-mile Dry.
I saw the wedgetail take his fill
perching on the seething skull.
I saw the eel wither where he curled
in the last blood-drop of a spent world.

I heard the bone whisper in the hide
of the big red horse that lay where he died.
Prop that horse up, make him stand,
hoofs turned down in the bitter sand
make him stand at the gate of the Thirty-mile Dry.
Turn this way and you will die-
and strange and loud was the dingoes' cry.

Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion

Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency

Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams

Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions

Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled

In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
******* with the intangible essence

To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance

Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice

Gold shed upon suckling gold,
The time of the bole blackens,
Of the dark mounted through dapple,
While in the sealed apple
The seed cradled toward cold.
A gold on gold spent,
Put by from an elm in its years
Now its gilded of days,
Over turf’s dishevelment;
Where all which is green sickens,
All the fresh shall be sere.
All which is green sickens,
And it is but for a time
Those embered veinings blaze
A year’s delirium;
Or neared of other space,
Unportioned azure shall close
One of more, and which is,
One which goes.
Let the little pupils that will,
Of vision, gaze for salt
To whet their gazing, wit
In one weather is high
From burrow and lair, by
Nether providences’ default
An all’s accrued.
And apposite, beyond
Such primer beholdings, has
Its long accounting known


The beetle’s morsel thus
Was rich, and the slug’s bed on
The oak’s generations, deep
Over the lark’s bones.
In slough of Edens fast
Wit in one weather shall stand,
While millennia nibble at
The sensual apple
Toppled it net,
Plenty in the palm of the hand,
And the fallen not fallen, not lost
From out its certitude—
For our unbeggaring
Has been gross. Few and late
To cherish an immoderate
Wish, hope’s calculus,
Love’s hope; few to miss,
From natural tally ******,
In the lime-girdled space
Of choice, where alone
Man can abandon what
Is only his own;
And in cold and tarrying
Their rearisers sleep:


While to the granite cheek
Light’s purples bring
Infinite their ministering,
And past our finial
And ragged crests, to keep
Time’s ambient stood,
Propose horizons from
Their shadowy quarries; while,
In an unwandered wood,
Or under the indifferent foot,
Is let fall, let fall a fruit,
Through eternal leisures down,
For but time’s unravelling.

"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)


~~~


perhaps.

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery

leave that to the better ones.

cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming

the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.

these exteriors are comprehendable.

don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.

Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant

question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.

can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

There is no fantastical world in which civility between us can exist. Civility, of course, being perceived in the sense that we can coexist pleasantly, without a romance topped with jaded raspberries and peppermint liqueur.
After a generous amount of sneezing and crawling and crying in the moonlight with half embered cigarettes hanging from our dripping mouths, I saw this. A grievous vision of Hank Stamper clawing at my back end, a still-life embedded someplace dark and dank, a cradle so forgotten and filthy that only a mother woven from dirt-covered cloth could love it. We built some ridiculous, disgusting house and made love in it. Day in, day out.
In the end our urinary tract infections infected our kidneys and became fatal when paired with the dysentery. I will always remember your name paired with dysentery, my love.
I promised myself endlessly that I was laying in such a softer settlement without you. Your reckless lifestyle was grimier than mine and our paths collided and collapsed with validity, I was sure of that. I am sure of that. However, it seems my insistence that I recover from you, brings with it some kind of ****** up honor to be dealt your way. Should I write a song about you? No, I'd soon hear it in your trapeze act. Should I make a film about you? No, the lead would be sinfully attractive and further engorge your rather large head. Should I write a book about you? Should I? Have I? Can I? I doubt you would see the honor here. In fact, if you were to look for anything other than consistent misuses of punctuation in my writing, I feel sure you would find solace and comfort and silence would soon follow.

the pyre of my soul
incinerates my interior
as I watch our flames burn
relentlessly from my lips
like the words that removed
love from around my heart

who would have believed
your whispers would burn
like the sun; singeing my
entirety with venomous
blisters flung with displeasure

bafflement sears...

there's no more emotions,
forgiveness is shamefaced
a misdirection of affections
your misunderstanding
leaves me naked in this
moment, heated in affront
this second fore, nothing
matters anymore

inner abashed turmoil...

roils like a cauldron upon
a campfire, its embered particles
I breathe and ingest for naught
in whimpering gasps
wanting to desecrate that
smirk rising upon your
handsome features; a look
I once found to be endearing
once in awhile

that you took away, too...

your total disdain; dousing
our flame of eternal love of
all that beheld us in God's
light; which, now leaves me
awash in bile, dazed, open-mouth
stares from dimming eyes
is all that looks upon my beauty
with such pain; makes me want
to scream, take me
want me, love me as once
before

re-ignite our flame...

those thoughtful embers are
undirected words drenched upon
an uncaring mind, directing
my soul and heart towards
the moon and the burn of stars
that light up the sky of my
heart and mind as if I could
have altered the course
of your bitterness, until
I can no longer sigh in want
of your love

thoughts of me gone asunder...

filling my lungs with silent
animosity towards all that you
stand for, my only want now
is for you to stay away from me,
allowing me to live in solitude
inside the hunger that pours
like stinging tears from my eyes,
let me be without changing
the sound of love still singing
within my heart

When I went to bed I was 17 –
plumes of raven hair and cigarette smoke
wreathed my head and I coughed,
tamping the embered end before kissing
him goodnight -
soldier’s cap a tilt to one side
muscled chin blemished by lipstick
as the screen door flags between us, and
summer makes its last sweet
serenade to the dancing aspens
while momma chided my lackadaisical
entrance and
fairy flight to bed.

At ten o clock I wake now
the aspens stand still, bare, black.
I look down to see
withered fingers writhing in tubes,
ugly blue veins, a strange
woman sponging my lady parts,
calling me “sweetie” like I was a child.
I scream for momma,
I look for him -
my love, my soldier -
starved for familiar faces, as
panic ropes its tendoned grip
through my ribcage, around my trapped
spasming-butterfly heart.

What have you done to me?
Strangers, monsters, *******.
I groan...no words come out, but
squeals and shrieks like a strangling
rabbit, my neck caught in a wire.
What’s wrong with me?
Where are you, my soldier?
Where are you, momma?
Why are they keeping me from you?

You see…when I went to bed I was 17.
When I woke,
I was on my deathbed.

It’s not fair, momma.
If I could do it over, I...
I never would have left him
on the porch, I
never would have passed you
in the kitchen, I
never would have slept
not one hour
not one **** minute
would I have willingly succumbed to
slumber with the faint hush of
summer’s overtures
fading
to the blank slate of
                               a white,
                                             white
                                                       winter.

Crippled creature broken in ballistic bone fracture about the blind tile,
freckled in blade licked flesh,
back strap shoulder blades quiver gaunt as skeleton wings
sprinkled in splashed satin fruitless reds and auburn oils,
the child’s insides splattered across the stomach of the floor,
limp muscle binding that of bundled circuitry,  
the boy only resembling needle and sticks
a mass of anatomy straightened out in lifeless splendor,
bone splinters clotted in saw dust muscle grindings
the face showered in locks and tangles,
galaxies and embered suns,
tassels golden simmered,
the creature’s hair a mane torn over his black socket eyes,
fierce in ferocity growling,
a monstrous roaring of prideful bangs,
Fallow face and cheek stomped to the floor as a rag
his form splashed about ground and surface.
Skin nearly bleached in cancer cell white,
a body folded as parchment, joints and ligament playing the part
lightless strewn as an idea lost in lifeless.
A white room hollow, muteness staling,
the busting of a boy broken in scaffold limbs torn
intwined amongst netted nerves wound about spindled bone
branched out in checkered blood stain
Shattered arms resembling puzzle pieced wings,
boy bathed in synthetic sunlight kisses,
But a watch crushed in brittle bronze shards about God’s feet

He had no idea if he would...
If he could actually do it...
When the time came,
When his sergeant gave the nod,
Let slip the dogs of war,
Unleash the copper bees,
Send missiles hurtling up or down
At targets moving now...
On men who may be wondering
If they could fire the same,
When the time came....

"Steady, men!"
"On my command."

He lay there,
On a roof,
In a ditch,
On an open field,
Crouched inside a turret,
Bellied down in a plexiglass ball,
Hurtled above a world mostly covered in cloud,
Standing far below the earth in silo'd steel,
Seeing still, through satellite eyes....

Peered into the mil dot scope,
Ignored the cross
To see through the center,
Found the circled aperture,
Punched coordinates into a seeing machine,
Saw green circles on the screen...
Aligned the circles....
Tried to breathe.

So that was how it was
For farm boys, Mowers of hay,
Grocers' sons, smashers of ants,
Carpenters, hammerers of nails,
And bakers' boys, cutters of bread,
Just in from shooting marbles and BB guns,
Transported into war,
Fed soldiers' ration:
meat and bread and beans,
Five cigarettes apiece in boxed MREs,
Sent off to **** and to be killed
With mothers' tears still fresh upon their cheeks,
With lovers' ache still glowing embered heat.

Training fresh,
Waiting command
To fire only when the order came...
To remain firing til the order came...
To hold the breath and squeeze...
To hold the sight just so...
To squeeze...
And to reload
Keeping head low,
Eyes on target...
To ignore all but the sergeant's yell,
To think of squeezing on new targets,
To wait awhile to process coming hell....

And when the time came,
He squeezed,
Felt the sudden life,
Heard little but the sound of
Clean ejection ...
Saw his bullet,
Saw his missile,
Saw his target meet,
And in the meeting,
Red,
And in the meeting ,
Fire and smoke,
And in the meeting
Knew  that he could do
What soldiers do.

This boy
Now cutting hay,
Now stomping ants,
Hammering nails,
Cutting loaves of cooling bread...
Caught in the maelstrom of war
With no moment left but now,
No possible tomorrow...
Only targets,
Only targeted
In ferocious winds
Of battle.

Two hours wasn't enough to write "Twigs".

I'm not even close enough to the fire to feel it's dying heat.
When the party moves away I'll dance around and through and behind the flames so I can really feel it.
Unfortunately it would appear, dancing through a twig fire isn't nearly enough for one's life to disappear.

The twigs burn for only minutes and I'll dance as long as I can for it's the only time that I have.
While I'm still alone just enjoy silence and that the cold stares of stars are being hidden by my fiery pollutants.
Judge people and opinions and facts, decide what is right then call it wrong because everything is neither.

When the party returns I'll slink off to find the kindling and ponder upon the fires inklings.
Gathering the twigs for poems and flames is better than watching my fire die surely?
Shame it's such a monotonous ******* trek, but monotony is the core of life, don't treat it too harshly.

And it's not like these twigs are ever entirely useless if one has but the curiosity to think about it.
Flames glimmer on beer bottles and the embered ends can light cigarettes.
If these pathetic flames won't burn me alive at least they'll help **** me slowly.

Would you believe this is where I came to write about love, lust and loneliness?
The greater themes of the past won't light my fire now unless one believes time is simultaneous.
Though that belief seems to offer no help whatsoever in the fight against freezing.

All good things must die as the wise men would tell me when I asked them for further closure.
But words don't burn unless you've written them on your forearm far too close to the light of open flames.
I began to write "Twigs" that night.

Two crates of beer, One pen found in the side of my car, Forty-three smokes, One pile of logs, Two significantly larger piles of twigs, Seven people, One left arm, Five stubborn bumps below the wheels of my barrow, A hat on a mannequin, Three bottles of wine, A sometimes blazing sometimes failing inferno and Fourteen long ******* hours...

Was not enough to write "Twigs"

Why did I think 2 hours would do it now?

I want to love you slowly
and to have you love me too
slowly despacito
an as I dance
you get the clue

you watch me as I dance
an like a spell
I will vex you
hoping you feel me too
as I'm wanting to now *** you

as our temperatures arise
with a look of purest want
as you reach up eager thighs
it's my skin babe now you taunt,

as my hips are slowly swaying
an the music slowly playing,
as we move to the beat
of our hearts in a tandem
we can't take this rising heat

ahh
so we take a quick retreat

but slowly slowly
as you kiss me
you want me more an more
as you try to ever bliss me
an haunt me
now forever to explore,
as you love me
then jaunt me
this could never seem a chore

ohhhh..down,
yes girl move yourself around,
you whisper slowly into my ear
tell me baby how you feel
so when you're not right here
I can imagine you so real

this is passion like I need
a lover just like this
we are hungry in our deed,
burning flames of true love bliss

as you breath in my sweet fire
and we caress our sweet sweet souls
as we ignite in pure desire
and are returned
to embered coals

I am so very grateful to burn
with you each an every night
an until we can return
an our sparks again ignite,
as our bodies daily yearn
then off we'll take our flight,

back
into the shining
of the brilliant
and gorgeous morning sun.

Ma Cherie © 2017

My heart beats wild and without rhythm
as your tender fingerpads brush
my embered cheeks.

Yet I want to claw the skin you touch
til my face is set ablaze with blood.

I yearn for the blood burn of your lips
at the base of my neck,
breath warm and sweet as tea.

Though I grip my neck in despair,
choking that you cannot love me.

Every time I catch your gaze,
tensions rise from the pit of my being
like freed birds.

Still my eyes run as late spring rivers
as your tongue cuts me like fresh poultry.

My mind flurries with crisp thoughts of you,
each gentle and pure as fresh snowfall.

Nonetheless, I can only endure
the blue-limbed blizzard of self-loathing and blame
that should not be mine.

Toes curl in ecstasy
like vines in bright sunlight as we become one,
how I always dreamed.

Now my dreams turn to nightmares
as my blistered toes carry me mindless through
the desert of complete isolation.

My own warm fingers brush your face,
down the slow ***** of your nose
to the petals that are your lips.

However, they hover,
hesitant,
unsure that the frame they grace
contains the paradox I love.

A frigid night outside the friary
Where only hears the sound of hearse
Insensible heart but with sadness
Liniment by loneliness and sadness.

Forever drown in this solitude fane
Clad with great shame
Mincing to wait yet groaning under pain
Her laconic eyes seems in chain.

A nightmare echoed as knell
An old cascade now pouring down tears
Can't find a way to be elated.
Destituted and chilled by many faces.

How lonesome you are!
You're dismal and with devious pride
You elude but always caught
A mariontte that always drift.

They repress you to fly
And a peevish child in you makes you cry.
Someone's flayed you but you denied
You only have one hop but they owed you a thousand strides.

They inflict you to 'kiss the rod'
Now you're a 'damsel in distress'
Your flimsy wings turns into embers
Reason why they taunt you and makes your dreams shutter.

But I know this knell will turn into a serenade
Though I have an embered wings, someday
I will reincarnate
I will bring back my glittering cascade.
I will leave this frigid friary and devastate their masquerade.

You're swirling in embered light
Gravity breathing out of your pores
I am a comet, burning ice in my wake
And you are the sol I come too close to

If I could breathe anything, it would be lilies
If you could hate anything, it would be air
You are so bright that when I close my eyes
I can see nothing but feathered fire

At the center of the universe, there's a tree of souls
Eris and Phobias collect its molt
They rain it down through the smog 'till it shatters on concrete
I watch as you catch it on your tongue

I found you on the drenched roof
Pale and glowing and still
Stars clinked in the sky with a diamond jangle
One had fallen, burrowing under your skin

And you told me you were sick with trying
And you told me that it hurt to burn
And you were cold and apathetic
You were you, but not the one that knew me

You flamed and flamed and flamed and flamed
You crashed and told no one at all
I miss you and I love you
Though you shine so differently now

nowadays they  have  to pinch the  ends

of their  cigarettes  before they  cross the  threshold no longer allowed to  herd  the  crumbling swarms of ash  across  the  gingham veldt


outside the  window, on the  pavement,    lies a  bible and  the  radio declares their  readiness  is high
seems like a  good   night to let the  smokers in and warm around a  last  embered light


on the  table I  browse  the  “priest“ they  called him

in the  centrefold, deep in the  heart,  a  flyer,

man’s  journey  into christ,

I  guess  we’ll   find out  soon enough the  veracity  of the divine



but until the  young-un  and the  white horse riders have  decided who can  ****  the  highest
leave us  to the  daily diary  and  its  tales  of

days  of ******* each  other’s  husbands and  wives



I  bought a  Dylan Thomas book one the  way  home, from the  junk  shop,
when I  got it  back  I  saw blood   on the  back cover

I  licked my  finger  to  wipe it  off but  she  said  “no!
you  fool“

sure  it  carried  the  plague of some cursed lover



I  plagiarise myself

a  drink  is most definitely in order

the  tawny  coolness tock tick toxic keen  as  the sharpest  dissection
and  then  you can  find me   not just  like everybody else but  just  like

everybody  else,  lying, hemi-hydrate,  below  the bridled  tension

of  life’s  meniscus

tear me apart, like roughened stained glass, ‘cause I’m not of paper,
instead, I’m of sand from the shores of your heart,
embered from the fluid of your ******* blood.

The light was embered coal,
That danced within your soul,
As the sky fled from the evening,
And once again alit the coin that silvered in the night,
Though not bright its gentle light would guide me from the shadows,
The air is chilled as whipper will cried into the darkness,
As wind will moan I'm not alone deep within my chasm,
A dream of light some other night with darkness all around me,
And dream well on until the sun sweeps the dark horizons ,
As light will soon so i shall too retreat into the morning.

Lost for words -
Still I try
years have passed
& gone away
Rest in peace
A forgotten face
Etched in stone
Embered pain
Her ash long stained
My soul
Alone, alive disgraced
First love
First loss
My cross to bare
yet, no one knows
Just me and my ghosts

Aestival

bright are January's skies
robust light poured
into antipodeal
atmospheres
azure blue
interspersed
occasionally
by slow moving
cotton ball cumulus
feeding into endless
cerulean horizons

the effulgent outer world
blows
into my inner pnuema
and heat rushes in
melting to puddles of wanting
my intended precept
of cool headedness

the fires of missing you
so blazingly perfervid
they strike envy
into Olympus Mons
molten heart
scorching every
living thing in vengeance

I am mapped internally
pointered
by embered markers
in all the hues of longing
which bleed in through
fevered *****

like a forest scorched
laid to barren hot dust
by racing bushfires
time hangs in the heat haze
begging for the quench
only found in your kiss
to soothe these
internal infernos

my eyes ache
through the dusty
miraged heat
straining
to fix you
in my sightlines

only then
will these raging fires
be subdued

J.C.

This is inspired by, and a direct 'bounce off' one of Crows poems here, 'Hibernal' (link below) that I absolutely loved.  Thank you Crow, for letting me take the liberty, of using yoir poem 'Hibernal' as a jumping off point for this one


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3686581/hibernal/

i write my poems with a torn tongue
of Freudian slips
in dark rooms of naughty language
that stick like fly paper on trespassing filigree wings of contagion  
where i remember the whole history of poetry
like a pageant of painted bride runway models
which i have culled
from the of blood of recognition

                                    blackout

a ghost from the underworld
i awaken to life in ecstatic perception
below shimmering celestial equators in a world of endless war
booming noise and scenic fruited braids of blurring tears
as enemies try to fill each others bodies
with spores and yardage of bladed body parts
in riddles of flesh
towards eternity as obsession becomes horror in an empire of rage

                                your gonna get such a slap

where justice and power forever suffocate each other
in a phantasmatic struggle both born to intermittent death and renewal in some contra parallel juncture of back and forth
where burning floors
thresholds of disaster
sprinkle embered words from hinterlands of excrement
giving birth to sagging hearts
and broken brains vignette on skeletons of wire and shining eyes
staring    staring    staring
through muffled pinhole pupils
staring black

                                eyeballs whistle

thank God i'm ****** again
and driving the white car in a crescendo of halos
slinged back fantasizing mythological ***** dreamgirls
and the food they cook in their wet *****
of melodious love and bedroom splits

                             Venus gone mad

and then i turn to puff smoke poem jazz
singing with opiated mouths
grinning red Beetle teeth
while driving through immortal clouds
of wish bone shaped pole dancers
with burning button hole eyes
spinning in horizontal love and death
blue pineapple aspic rhapsodies


                                *i'm your ******* daddy

Underwater bells ring
candles fire flickering
burning down
to waxen embered nub
thunder rumbles
as lightning strikes
flashes through
my dreamscape
kicking up through
the undertow
hoping to wake
his cool hands
pull on my ankles
trying to keep me
down with him
where deep underwater
bells ring
where deathly angels
with sweet
voices sing.

© J.C.

Underwater bells
lingering
echoes
carried in the swells
sunken sirens
sweetly sing
tempting hirens
underwater
bells ring
candles fire
flickering
burning down
to waxy
embered nub
thunder rumbles
lightning flashes
striking through
my dreamscape
kick up against
the undertow
hoping to wake
cool hands
he grips
my ankles
tight
pulling hard
fight the rip
he tries
thinks he might
keep me
here with him
where deep
underwater
bells ring
where
deathly angels
with
silken sweet
voices sing.

© J.C.