"loincloths" poems
Discarded loincloths adorn the table.
No one pays attention to the spilled milk,
catching the fever, we turn the other cheek
our hastiness turn upbeat over prevalence
it is hard; juxtapositions lie at your fingertips.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
if kisses are green and bodies verdantly exact in sameness
let my hands be two birds glorifying the waters in the slopes
of fingers,
if song is but undeath and the rise and fall the unalphabeted siren
of the morning,
such loose wind swaying over her silently as loincloths
over blackred roses, easily it breaks like a finger of a shadow
whirling gently through opened windows in candid moonlight
but if surely does your going signal the dawn but no birds
wreathing the trees and no gardens inherit garlands,
what shall then be two birds over waters but a single stride
of sorrow and whose temporal flights disdain centrifugal faces
of waiting; measured, coveted, photographed, love everywhere fading
where silence maims sound and music topples over the moon
the stars the sleepless nights and the stellified dust of the world
that must be opened again
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
where does a flower
keep its flaring memories?
in the petals, loincloths
light-skinned in
resplendent ephemera.
or in the thorns,
prickly music of
an esoteric cadence
without falter,
blood upon blood,
flesh upon flesh,
ash upon ash
tumult of pains and the eclipse
of a broken archipelago.
in the stem,
bending to the oppressing wind.
like your body upon my body
swaying to the sound that no
ears hear underneath rivers
and the sorry tale of
weightless drowning no eyes
ever witnessed.
in the hands of the wind
is where they are kept.
moonlight shines its
perihelion mouth across borders
of untouched reminiscences
and we have called them names
and similar aches as rain
dropped like a net of sadness
or the debris of a ruin,
betrayed by the thirst of our
lips when we longed for the sea
and failed to heed its
cerulean calling.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
The dusty lobes of your eyes,
Dark news of a king's wellness they carry
To the masses,
On raven wings of a light tongue
Broken, the spirits of her citizens,
Surrounded by enemies of blades and chariots,
Camping under the hollow moon
And before dawn,
Shall they throw rocks of flames,
To the sky walls of this city,
Commencing, the day between jaws of desolation
Mothers shall run,
Hidden, faces of their cherished daughters,
Behind loincloths of their ashes
And sons, besides their fathers,
The rising spirits of the dead
How easy it is to set fire on a pine forest?
So easy it is, to seize a city whose king lies,
Covered in wool and animal skin,
Fighting the inviting winter of an after world
The place where time defines no history
But an abyss of oblivion
A throne without a heir,
And a name, to vanish like smoke
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC