The audacity
that you would write a ***** a love letter
That you would in so many words announce your affections for a *******
Thay you would pour out your heart
to a harlot

But here in hand i have it
written in blood turned tan from time travel
caligraphy cornerstones that mark the foundation for forgiveness
lithography laden with agony for the cause of love

It's as if even now, i can watch your quill
as it traipses across parchment
fabricated from your very own lamb's skin
still marred with scars
rough and red
tears at it's edges
and holes torn by gashes

the audacity of that "I love you"
scrawled in the crucifix cursive of the creator of the earth and its
universe
unfurled to cut the mundanity with meaning


The audacity...


I am wordless.


My soul is far from speechless.

Pablo went to the circus
The lithographs give it away
Unless of course
He had the knack
Of producing a place from scratch
An imaginary circus

The positive and negative space
Silhouette circus
Of hoops and bears
Gymnasts on chairs
The blank faced audience


He also did ******* bullfights
In 1946
His blood splattered face leering
Over his lithography

-

i found a can of fish hooks
while looking for a pair
of gloves to—day

a decomposing hand
crawls its way back
to its owner;

in the course of parsing
her effects after she was
folded and filed away

finger over finger by thumb
over lithography of safety,
prying open the subtle warmth
of personal bed space,

like a pen seeking fluid
to fuel an exhausted
ink well,
the tip of one of
them pricked my finger,

finger over finger by thumb
over a papier-mâché torso –
casting long shadows, even
in total darkness,

my blood then violated
an heirloom—

a notepad of dreams she
had on her nightstand
the morning she died,

between the folds of blankets
towards vulnerable skin—
icy digits commence
with repossession,

detailing on
her last entry what
i had just written here—

frantically groping into thick
blackness for the pull chain
of a light switch—

something to do about a
can full of fish hooks
she happened upon
in a nightmare...

It was just a Glove
it was a glove
it's a glove
a glove
~




s jones
2021
.

I let the pain ooze through my veins,
To scribble words of shame,
Unto the forgotten scriptures of love,
Corroding my tissues,
Letting the rain wash away hope,
Of my dreams.

Let the bad guys forever taste the tasty fruits of the garden Eden,
Let the good guys taste the fruits of their tools of labour,
Let the reckless women get devoured past the gates of Hades,
Let the lucky women joke on the privileged embrace of appreciation.
Let hearts ache let wounds heal,
Let the moon hum the soothing tunes of despair,
Looping the rhythm of empty souls,
Let the stars swing their hips lustfully,
Let the earth weep and swallow its trickling tears,
Let the calendars roll back to thoughtful years,
Before I confess my feelings again…
To you, and you, and you!!!

I am hurt, I am lost, I am banished,
My story told is etched in stones of lithography,
There is no memories of yesterday, no longings of tomorrow,
******* son of the plains,
Poetry… My Heritage,
Your lips,
Architect of my pedigree,
Your tongue… Forbidden,
Your scent… alluring,
Your breath…. Distracting,
Your heart, echoing with every beat,
Your sweat, moist, I imagine it, salty.
You say, ‘Don’t kiss me’, I do,
You kiss back, you stop, I kiss again… You cringe!!!
I am hurt, I am lost, I am banished.

You always tell me that actions speak louder than words,
So I tried to mime dance my feelings,
I tried to explain that this is real but you put up Van Gogh’s ear and stared at the ceiling,
It’s killing, me inside, it is sealing me to my pride, its drilling me despite…,
My strength, my character!

I am a DJ and the moon is my deck,
Spinning the world.
I am a pale face, the stars, my ornaments,
I am a gladiator sent to the afterlife,
This crust my home,
I am the waters: Your photographer, endlessly capturing your reflection,
You easily now see why I mean it when I say,
‘You mean the World to me’
I am hurt, I am lost, I am banished.

Let the rivers glide across the mountains of ***** men,
Past the forests of ****** misgivings,
Past the fateful decisions, humans call choice,
Between the thighs of Athena,
Into the vaginal walls of pleasurable gains.
And I will be here waiting…
I am hurt, I am lost, I am banished.

I seek solace, on the tip of cupid’s arrow,
He is aiming for your chest,
I seek to land on your heart,
Swim in your arteries,
Seek refuge in your brain,
Jogging, panting.
Now feel how I feel when you are always running in my mind.
You ask me to take a walk in your shoes,
I can’t even tie my laces,
You are a rare blossoming flower,
I can’t even hold you like vases,
I wear my heart on my sleeves,
For protection.

I feel like the foetus aware it will be aborted,
Because I am dying inside,
SAVE ME!

onyx black
glossy from front to back
looking up from the walnut coffee table
across from the television and cable

years in the making
if it’d rise as the bread baking
but it doesn't wear a jacket
and a lot of men just sack it

letters in printed lithography
a creamy paged biography
nursed, as a mother with her babies
but through the rabidness gave rabies

bended spine and stained
every line the writer pained
can’t make the New York Best seller's list
closed off like a fluid-filled cyst

no editor, agent or publisher
not in volumes like the travels of Gulliver
this self-published and vanity
leads to a life of insanity!