-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon,
he will paint flowers across my throat

as though to remind me that fires are indelicate,
and that I writhe in a prison made of open space.
-- this man will not smother me with his skin
when we sleep.
-- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth,
and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue.
                                                                ­               ---
whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man,
realizing I have become the flowers he painted
across my throat, by braving my throat,

I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry,
bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

The man sleeping in the diner’s back booth
will not care  if your mother suffers  from
plantar diabetic neuropathy or that your
children read **** and steal *****.  

No,  trivial matters will be of no worry
to him because he ****** himself while
dormant and leaving  without  others
knowing will be of primary concern.

Beauty all over
No one cared to notice
Open your eyes

Touch offers the deepest clue to the mystery of encounter, awakening and belonging.*
John O'Donohue



Child grips the ******
indelicate with haste and
stern impatience a
cradle of warm fleshy love
rucked in the dark of her arms.


Shiloh Harmitt

What will you have, asked the waitress,
A death sandwich I replied,
Mustard and ketchup, she continued,
Yes and slather the mayo, double the cheese, I answered back politely,
You’re aura is a spiral, she said, whole wheat or white,
White with butter and does it come with final fries, I queried,
Included, she replied
And a new indelicate sugar fix by the pail.
Make mine to go, I suggested.
Want to quantum up and get a piece of plague cake
Maybe **** cookies in a bowl.
What a wonderful time to be alive I remarked,
The only generation to ever eat itself to death she quipped,
We’re special I said and looked away.

Her smile held my hand
As I led her up the grand staircase
She pulled on her pleats
And carefully took her place
To be gazed upon and worshipped
Buttressed by my approval
A saint of ****** desire
She could not foreshadow her removal
As the glow of my delusion shines
She is unaware
Assuming her immortality
Cloaked by the intensity of my stare
Unspoken words are felt
She believes she has been pardoned
Mere beauty enough
For her heart had softened
Soon she paces
Back and forth in her discomfort
As for a moment
She lost her golden support
I dared avert my eye
To live if only for a moment
Alone and in control
Yet it only caused her torment
Her angelic eyes turned red
Her ***** sighed
Suddenly she realized
Her subject had lied
It was not eternal love
Or forgiving grace
Instead it was seduction
In his hands he held lace
As long as she was pretty
And demure in his presence
She could live on as a goddess
While faking its essence
What happened?
How did she lose control?
Assuming her power
She failed to see what he stole
Yes the princess
Has given her virtue
To an artful lover
Who pretended to be true
Her mistake
Was failing to heed his writ
Don't mistake my kindness
For weakness of the spirit
My power to love
Can be removed at will
As long as you are worthy
It will remain still
Spoiled by her parade
The queen commands
Her subject turns away
And begins making plans
Removing the grand staircase
He prefers an indelicate fall
The music has stopped
It is the end of the ball
Shocked to be so discarded
Once prized now yesterday's refuse
Devastated by her turning fate
She lives as a recluse
The Monarch
Sheds it's wings
Crawling back to her cocoon
Solitude the sadness to which she clings
The gaze is empty
He rises from his knee
Turning to another
She hears his heart plea
Take my hand
And mount my pedestal
Let me worship you
He smiles as she becomes ornamental
Another glass to break
Another jewel to steal
His passion unending
As the conquest is greater than what he feels

Just like Eminem,
I'm not afraid to take a stand
If that is what it would take to make you
comprehend
That this adulation spawns me to be
mettlesome
I was impatient to wait for the time,so I
purchased a new watch our time has come
Been in many debauched rapports
All resulted a faux pas because I invested less
effort
Not rueful, but from this juncture I prospect
to be more perfect
I'm not afraid
To take a stand
If that is what it would take to make you
comprehend
I was improvident but I'm devising to be
provident
I was impatient but I'm outlining to be patient
I am stubborn but I'm willing to be adamant
You said I'm indelicate I'm willing to be decent
I'm not afraid
To take a stand
If that is what it would take to make you
understand
That I'm for you and only you
I'm executed from dishonesty, I take an oath
to be true
I'm not afraid
To take a stand
Even if that is what will make you understand
That I love you and only you...
Siyanda

Fleeting memories
A crushing weight
Thoughts swirl
A chaotic dance
Morbid and morose
I shudder
Sigh
Lock the door
My heart is closed
I am empty streets
And howling winds
An onslaught
Of indelicate ideas
Leaves rushing
As water
I am bleak
I long to crumble
And return to dust
To spread out
Into the vast blackness
Vacuum of the infinite
I am all
I am nothing
Existence is illusion
Dreams are more real
Yet
I do not sleep
For I fear to wake
So I remain
Ever here
Ever there
Never here
Never there
Neither
Both
Ensconced between
Light and dark
Good and evil
Life and death
Alone
Forever
Thus
I despair.
Souvenirs fugaces
Un poids écrasant
Pensées tourbillon
Une danse chaotique
Morbide et morose
Je frémis
Soupir
Verrouillez la porte
Mon cœur est fermé
Je suis rues vides
Et vents hurlants
Une attaque
D'idées indélicats
Feuilles précipiter
Comme l'eau
Je suis triste
J'ai longtemps à s'effriter
Et retourner à la poussière
Pour étaler
Dans la grande noirceur
Vide de l'infini
Je suis tout
Je ne suis rien
L'existence est illusion
Les rêves sont plus réels
Pourtant,
Je ne dors pas
Car je crains de réveiller
Donc, je reste
Jamais ici
Jamais il
Jamais ici
Jamais il
Aucun
Tous les deux
Enclavée entre
Lumière et obscurité
Bien et le mal
La vie et la mort
Seul
Toujours
Ainsi,
Je désespère.

Peace got clothes to wear
that are called democracy
and are also worn by others

doppelgangers on the stage
of the power that they serve
as an extra or a puppet

It's an easy role
but in real life it is great
self-control and a matter

of patience to understand others
and to convince each other
of a public interest

This is how the Great Law
of Peace works along the Panther Lake
and the Sparkling Water

listening and consulting
without ventriloquism
or indelicate word

The old priest sat
in the dark of the
confessional. A girl
had entered on the
other side and knelt.

A rustle of clothing,
breathing, a cough.
He was prepared for
the list of sins, the
the soft voice verbal

sprouting, the usual
schoolgirl misdemeanours.
Yes my child? He said.
Mary on the other
side stared at the grille,

tried to make out which
was the priest. Bless me
Father she began, then
the list ran. The priest
placed his hands over

his ears. The list was long,
indelicate, touching on
the obscene. He fumbled
with his beads, tried to
make out the voice,

the owner, which girl?
He thought, peering into
the grille, his eyes searching
through the semi dark.
Mary pushed her knees

together; she sensed the
need to ***. She knelt holding
herself in, pushed her hands
between thighs. How long
was the old codger going to be?

She mused. The priest coughed.
Sniffed, tried to discover the
scent. He said the usual words,
about trying to avoid the occasion
of sin, have faith, and so forth

uttered in a strained voice.
He peered hard. The outlined
figure fidgeted, moved from side
to side. Never in his born days
had he.  He uttered the absolution,

made a sign of the cross. Then
she was gone. The light there
then not there. A smell of sin?
What was it? No, not *****?

The sunset throws the people into silhouette,
The rolling hills into sharp relief against themselves.
It romanticizes the world,
Like for once there is such a thing as freedom.

Age watches the clock and the calendar at end of day,
Youth watches the setting sun.
Dreams can be so fleeting after all,
And time so indelicate.

Long live the youth in a world of disarray.
Long live dreams in a world of age.

Age searches for the meaning of life,
Youth finds life in the meaning,
Why else would we run away for but a single day?

The sunset paints brown grass gold.
Time paints gold moments brown.
The ocean sits behind the trees
But long ago it sat in the pockmarked sky
And fell,
Like sand to the bottom of the hourglass,
The House of Usher.
Long live that aging ocean,
Long live that youth in the sky,
Bright blue-white pinprick footprints
Left behind in existential black.
Long live the never ending sky,
The forever ending sea.

Naught but a memory of a dream now,
Petals of light catch on rivers of roads,
And we remember it like pirates do the ocean -
Free, formidable, fierce, forever.

Age throws memory into silhouette,
Light shines photographs into spots of glare.
Youth romanticizes the world,
Like once upon a time,
We were free.

Of all the stories we tell ourselves
late at night
before bed, before sleep
speaking solemnly into the dark
There were gales
the night you were born
the family folklore
unpacked, gently handled
exclaimed over again and again
every retelling a buff to bring out the shine-

Yes there are some stories we tell
and others we keep
the deep
hints and murmurs of
What Really Happened.
The indelicate hows and whys
of your sixteen year old self giving birth
on the bathroom floor.
There are more
than two sides to this tale.
More corners, more edges: a prism
reflecting light at any angle.
But all of this was your own making.

Those years were carefully picked over,
censored, books with whole chapters
black struck through.
No, these are not
the halcyon echoes of your childhood-
no gold topped milk, no
reading by the light in the hall.
No cast iron, no Christmas mornings.
No hedgerows, no collecting the hens at dusk.

These are the bitter pips,
the hanging nails and paper cuts.
The inedible core of the matter:
What was said to you was said.
What was done to you was done.

And you
you were always too clever by half
for the skimmed, six-of-one versions
of events,
played out like lazy Sunday morning television.
The truth
is always smaller
and greyer than we imagine. We think
of memories as ribbons tying the past together,
but for you
they are stones filling up your pockets
and every year
the river runs a little higher.

Noises, constant struggle,
Ever ending silence,
Pressure robust, indelicate,
Colors touching my dried tongue

My shoes are now heavy,
Sun became an enemy,
This needling sand,
Burden which directs me

I do not stop upon the tombstones,
But I have read every inscription,
Many times,
Reading until the end

I deceive my sight,
With a mirage of a mirror,
With surface all sweaty,
Undusted, begging filth to disappear

Faithfully, I search for a familiar face,
And doubts are all your freckles,
Chewing on my arms,
Never was there a plan

Step by step,
I am being gradually consumed,
A perfected torture,
Every time and always,
A lesser piece left

Now do I crawl,
Or am I painting circles,
This sullen land,
Once your joy,
Now my lair.

Good dirt,
Bad dirt,
Bag of dirt,
dirt in a bag, avoided dirt bag, almost,
flowers, herbs
and veggies everywhere,
not a clean spot, all is dirtied,
soiled by my touch,
perfect plants in little pots,
re-planted, by gloved hands,
staying dirt free,
not gentlely,
name is Darrell,
not Mary,
don't you dare ask me how does
my garden grow,
for I will say, with dirt
on my face in my hair,
it is too early to tell so;
you can go look for silver bells
and cockle shells and all those pretty maids
in some body else's row,
cause I moved dirt for what it is worth,
for hanging baskets, on every word,
and herbs to flavor, my tongue,
as I stripped those young plants
from their root bound temporary
prisons,
for reasons unknown,
as I did not inherit my mother's green thumbs,
I did not earn any merit badges nor did I join 4 H,
in the days of my youth, now
I grow weary of faltering crops,
it is to easy to stop to ****,
and wet the soil, care for
those things that rise from the dirt,
that were moved, into containers,
with indelicate fingers, gloved,
not loved by any living thing they touched.
Give me dirt,
I can't hurt dirt,
broken stems, ripped leaves,
I grieve for them and that
they may forgive, my clumsy
ways, and be touched by the healing sun's rays.
I understand dirt,
for it is where I came from,
and His breath.

Suffering on the foggiest level. Buffering to ward off the devil. Privately articulating the indelicate erosion of a china doll face. Unveiling the haste of hustle from her face where grace might have been before she fell... apart... from being wrapped in the race too long. Manufactured for success we digress under pressure. We try to be greater and find ourselves lesser, confronted by an anxiety fueled by society. Can't say I know anyone who isn't stressed... Meanwhile the china doll is made of powder and glue so when the rain comes she doesn't know what to do but cry off her own face and die. The china doll face that we doubt ever possessed any grace at all. She dilapidates. Depressed. Sunken eyes, damp dress. We say goodbye to her fragile frame and forget so fast...

He drew designs of passion on my naked flesh with his fingertips

the rythym slow and winding delicately, pensively around the tightly wound delicate-est parts of me.

It was as if he were tracing every line, every beauty every imperfection that was my essence in physicality, and on occasion he looked deep into my eyes for further permissions to which I could not answer held hostage by his touch and my indelicate wanting.



The bottom of my lip curled up in a tooth nip constrained the torrernt of love words that threatened to pour from my mouth, breath doing its best to find regulation and all I wanted was to be lost in His adoring admiration floating anywhere in his abyss contented just to stare at his unorthodox beauty, fashioned by his strength and decisiveness and above all the way his soul knew mine.



It was a separation unbearable made more so, by the powerful burning longing ignited by his feathery touch. caught somewhere between sweet Nirvana and torturous Hades;  not sure which toe was dipped in which?  These were fleeting thoughts that brought me through my confusion and closer to the clarity of madness. Eyes now intent on discovering him, devouing him with each twist and turn of his strong limbs. my fingertips begining to free themselves from thier trance, reach hesitantly when finally touched its destination a gasping pleasure realsed its self from his throat as i slowly realise my touch equally burning my own design trails of longing fire. He threatened to lose control of, breathing love and fire passion as the lines of desire's designs brought fourth an achictectural beauty that ochestrated prisimic baptismal fire that no other could have pervaded;  and the words written in the burning flesh had no name just symbols, traced over and over again still not enough to capture meaning. It was all we had but it was enough to sign our love endless to the ages of ages.



some say there is a word that comes so close though many more words are missing, forgotten but still felt penultimate erotismiagapea the unity of all things designed to be craved by love.

I wish I could sing for you
But my voice is as rough as the canvas I paint on
And my medium has never been vocals
I have neither the talent or lung capacity
I am not rhythmic, simply loud.

I would write for you
But I fear I have already sent too many words your way
And you will begin to believe
(However truthfully)
That words are all I have to give.

I would paint or draw for you
But the lines produced by my clumsy, ringed fingers
Would never measure up to the delicate lines
Your hands trace into my skin.

I would simply show you I love you
By holding your hand
And brushing your hair from your eyes as you snooze
But you are too far
And my cold arms could never reach you.

I will offer you all this regardless.
My voice though it is rough and shaking.
My words though they are overused and ocassionally pretentious.
My artwork though it will never be as beautiful as your hands on my skin.
Myself, though I am cold and far away, graceless and indelicate, lost for words, and rough and broken.

I offer myself to you, broken pieces I may be, and I am yours to take or toss aside.
(Though I hope that you will choose the former)

Is it you
Or your shadow?

Who does the talking?
I can’t seem to find either one of you

It never follows
It never speaks
Except to the weak

What did you do to it?
Or what has it done to you?
Do you know?

I stare at the sun for truth
And watch for its shadow for relief
But the sun has no shadow for me
Only a fleeting glimpse of what I will never be
But for what the sun will not allow
I will find with the turn of a cheek

How strange
To explain a lost shadow
There are no words to tell
Except a woman without a shadow
Is a man without a woman in his life

I stare at the moon for love
And watch your face for relief
But your face has no love for me
Only a fleeting glimpse of what could be
But for what the moon will allow
I lose with the turn of your cheek

In a confused state of an indelicate world
With normality turned upside down
And all wrong which finally feels right
I stare back at the sun to see where I’ve been

A voice is heard from the sky that has always known me
Since the day I first noticed its presence it has waited for this moment
Was it spoken today or a thousand years ago?
What message is so important to travel such a distance
Only to arrive in the light eclipsed by the shadow of doubt?

The shadow knows as it reveals itself only to the weak

table knife,
life’s
edge
forged
by fire’s
most orange lake.
from your mirrored-face
of steel
you still reflect
the paleolithic
prophecy
of your crude
ancestors
from which you
evolved:
the chipping
flint and the
hand axe,
both used by death
to sustain life,
both stained by the
blood of the hunt,
and by
the bloodletting
of rituals, to remind
and to remain
as spotted rust
on your shiny
smooth blade.

and now,
you hide
in silence
in our kitchen drawers,
and lay flat
and impassive
on our eating tables,
as though you were innocent.

table knife
in the hands
of a grandmother
you are
kind and deliberate.
you cut
to feed but
never to fatten,

in the hands
of a parent
you hang
like the sword
of Damocles
over uneaten peas
and threaten
like the sword
of Solomon
to halve everything
into equal shares,
disrupting
nature's, natural
imbalances,

in the hands
of a child
you cut quick,
and you scrape
and squeal
like a pig running
from a band
of hungry,
hunting
pygmies.

but
table knife
in the purple
hands of politics,
why must you
always cut life
so thinly sliced
and indelicate
like delicatessen
meat? can you
stay sharp and still
broaden your blade
enough to carve
more generous
portions
for the poor?

for without
food on our plates
to cut, you shall remain
flat and silent
in our drawers,
absent from our tables,
and as lifeless as
a silver bass,
rotting in the basin
of a dry lake, and
to us, you shall
remain forever
guilty.

Saw you descending from Alpha Centauri
Coming in weightless on Geminid halos
an ice bow of swan cry, indelicate nova,
a meandering circus of flame .

Your numinous vision run glossy with travel
surrendering spells of chaotic design
to palace the valiant
light years with presence,
your brigantine embers return.

The barn door swings open
with a heave of rusted chain,
padlock clanking on timber.

Step inside the barn
and the air is cooler.
Dust motes hang
in shafts of light.
High above you, witness tobacco sticks
tucked into the crossbeams like bones.

The tractor is dead.
But there is a baby doll
propped against the wall.
She has wisps of desiccated hair
and straight bangs that hang
over an empty eye socket.
Her bland face is spidered with cracks.
The ragged hole in her chest—
such an indelicate wound—
reveals a wire skeleton.
Her right hand, missing three fingers,
cannot smooth the tatters of her dress.
Her naked feet are ***** but
undiminished and intact.
She smiles, almost.

The doll watches you watching her.
A wasp lands on her one good eye.

You step toward her through slants of light,
dust settling on your shoulders and shoes.
The metal roof temporarily catches
the shadows of planes and birds and clouds.
As mice scurry beneath canvas drop cloths,
the barn door closes slowly behind you,
pushed by an unexpected breeze.

Many summers ago
you were married in this barn;
it rose up like a cathedral around you—
white candles and the smell of fresh straw,
relatives warm in their folding chairs,
a man playing acoustic guitar, golden rings.

The old baby you see is new,
detritus gathered alongside
dull hacksaws, scraps of lumber,
the mechanics of broken things.

It is time to turn around now.
It is time to walk into the meadow,
wearing your most beautiful dress.
It is time to notice the sun high in the sky,
to feel your heartache cooled as you buzz
between the shadows of tall flowers.

There's less opportunity for analogue cameras thesedays
what has this century done for us?
Slide film is diminishing
its a niche market for the fast buck.
Instead its digital pixels rather than steadfast grain.
But I'm laughing most cameras are actually mobile phones,
an indelicate breakout of self love presides,
lost to the instant world of media
Facebook and twitter are the price draw
for me too media savvy
Clearly creativity died somewhere.

I am cautious of
your frail heart

I dare not
touch it with my
indelicate fingers

that weave time
as if it were
a thread I
could simply
unpick

if I went wrong

these are the offerings
of lost things,
toy cars and thimbles
that no one knew
what to do with

but you heart,
like the flesh
of the moon,
sits in the sky like
an echo

calling me home

a rash of failings and testy upheavals
oncoming gush of particular evils
take a time now to think it through
your fate you will lose to an indelicate rue

lost stature folded over in napkin style
hidden from the essence of a fateful smile
berated and scorned like a sore loser
stanchions holding back another abuser

leaping into action in avoiding this fate
but fell a bit short, behind a black ball and figure eight
I'll look upon posterity in a fast moving flight
to a new brighter place in ablaze with light