"michaelangelo" poems
of course i ********** every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
David, like David and Goliath, like the statue
was made in 1501 by Michaelangelo.
A fatherless son, born perfect to the world. Full Grown.
But in Italy, they'll tell you that Michaelangelo
never wanted to be a sculpter;
That he was an artist but that his gift was his curse.
Yet he still managed to create this marvelous marble masterpiece.
Gave the world beauty to call it beautiful and behold it for hundreds of years,
because heaven knows he never would.
But sometimes I feel like you see yourself more like Galatea.
But a rose by any other name might smell more sweet than thee,
My fair, dark lady,
Only to be loved by those of your statue.
I mean, stature.
My fair, dark lady,
who chased me from the light in spite of just wanting to help
the charity case.
My fair, dark lady,
I made you to be a hero,
But a villain you became.
How can one love the name of a rose proud enough
To ***** the finger of tender green thumbs?
Still, its handed a clean slate for the sake of soft petals.
Justified by sweet smells and vibrant colours.
Excused.
Just, if only I could forget the thorns,
I'd have spoken "Love" differently.
I wanted to love you like no other sister would,
but couldn't.
I wanted a savior to stay even when things are okay,
wouldn't you?
When the giants weren't around.
Well, who's hero are you now?
Tell me how a statue saves lives,
rather than turning to stone when the sun rises
And I will eagerly believe.
Or don't.
Strike your pose.
Bask in the spotlight.
It's what you wanted.
It's what you got.
Hear them say "Galatea."
Not marble but ivory,
"Eliza."
"Aphrodite."
And believe them.
"Perfection created."
But I'll call you David;
Never abandoned,
forever alone.
Because humans don't need solution or heroes to depend on.
We need friends.
Well, congratulations, beautiful.
Everyone loves you.
Except, the people who should.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
I suppose if the arts had any real power
Michaelangelo's David could have healed my brother
Rimbaud could have saved Hiroshima
Monet could have painted the world in shades of peace
Desiderata could have protected me
But this is the real world
And where poetry once grew comes the art of fabrication
Dali's obras are no longer enough to make me forget
Moonlight Sonata never warned me of this hurt
The waltz never healed a broken family
I suppose if the arts had any real power
Beethoven wouldn't have gone deaf
Van Gogh would have been happy
Hemingway would have loved better
And Ginsberg wouldn't have been afraid to love
Yet here they all are
When the only light I see is on hundred year old canvas
When the only solace I have is a dead man's words
When the only thing that keeps my heart thundering
Is the promise of a Boticelli ending in Picasso figures
All colors, beauty, light and metaphors
The promise of a Renaissance gleaming in the ashes of prose
This is the real world
I suppose if the arts had any real power
It would heal more than just my heart
It would build me a new Garden of Eden
And I'd pave a way to nirvana
So the world could join hands
And start anew
But it's saved me for now
That is enough.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
Like a dandelion seed
you have flown from my reach
When you used to be so near.
The night calls out to you
With siren delights
Guiding you
with illusions of bright shining lights.
Like Michaelangelo's barefooted baby Jesus
I see you run toward a future
Headed for potential disaster
And like the angels
I want to shadow you
To steer you away.
Yesterday seems far away
With sadness I see
Time
Has made you step away
From me.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
Just now, you've come to bed, 1:00AM,
Watching your fav Sunday night shows,
In our bed, been awaiting patiently,
You slip slide in, experienced, unclothed,
So there would be less friction,
Just a sensation of more warmth,
But waking me nonetheless.
Not upset, not at all...no mad men here...
Presenting me anew with an annual question..
*By annual I mean, a question posed
Every night of every year
Of the rest of our lives together...
Which is not the same as
nightly, perpetual or forever*
What is my favorite part?
My hand is drawn immediately to
The back of your neck, where hair wisps unruly,
Refuse to obey my gentle stroking and tidy up,
Joining all the rest which you have upswept for me.
Like every child crayon-armed,
Begin at the beginning and
Draw circles upon circles,
Caresses disguised as art,
All over your newly presented tableau,
But you know my truth,
Searching, searching for my favorite place again.
Pretend I've discovered a
Checkerboard where I seem to win
Every game I've ever played,
Practicing double and triple jumps
Turning all of my captured pieces into Kings.
A snuggling presentation, a white skin canvas,
Mine to draw upon, what's my vision ce soir?
My pointer, my paint brush asks for directions,
Who shall we be! Mondrian, Chagall, Raphael?
Tonight I am Michaelangelo, my finger shall be the
Finger of God and with it I shall anoint and draw
Our names on my favorite place.
Sighing, you message me multiples,
Let me sleep please, but don't stop yet...
Understood.
If you have a job to do,
Get to it man.
Because we both know long ago
Selected my location were my fingers five
Will end this charade, this pretense.
The inner space that curves serpentine,
Where your back meets your hips,
Your waist so delicate will be stroked
And stroked till I hear your heavy lidded breathing.
Signaling me the game is over,
We have both won.
1:55 AM
Every night
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
***~ for my friend and fellow poet
Rebecca Askew~***
wherever that bench be,
I be
oxygen sweet, sharing mine,
preserving you, a necessary for me
for are you not
my very own Canadian
wild shorebird daughter,
my wailing
wild woman, kicking up dust trails,
driving across wide plains
with no-eye boundaries,
whose prayers and lamentations,
take me into mourning places,
and lift my eyes skyward
what is this,
the third, the fourth,
the nth,
poem you have extracted,
from oil drilled within me,
dug in my inky deeper places,
my tarred but oil rich sands
though our eyes have not yet crossed,
our embrace completely incomplete,
a millennia of words exchanged,
borders crossed oft,
no passport ever shown,
no visa needed,
when this will not sufficient prove,
I do not know
but with calm certitude
Michaelangelo finger extended,
when that last traverse
will be spent, at last at lasted,
the when or the wherever
this will be, a commencement ceremony,
I Know
that my spirit
you so well possess,
will come upon your request
bring your near,
no marble bench memorial markers here,
just life giving
empty Adirondack poet's chairs,
needing jams and jelly filling,
your name dedicated,
inscribed thereon, upon one,
be by my bay,
(forgive but forget cold, unforgiving Lake Michigan,)
by my bay, seagulls wail and squeak
airborne inspirations,
acting soully as watch-birds over poets-in-residence,
where words lap upon the simple shore,
for free-taking, warm lived life contained,
no talk of death, only cheating it...
This I know,
as well as the colors of
my blood, my guts, my words,
yours, the first words my eyes read this day,
this, my last belief, as my heart beats,
come summer,
we will write together side by side,
the windy invisible, indivisible
words composed,
be, that, our true benchmark,
of lives well lived,
forever preserved,
death defeating,
you,
help me to
see too well,
so laughing shouting,
fine woman-poet,
I know thyself
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
It's about 2:30 in the morning
there you stand
a janitor
weilding your gigantic
paintbrush
in a full jumpsuit
and a bald cap.
Nobody's around.
The mophead slaps the ground
you dance with it
Swirling it all
across the checkered tile
with such grace
and such beauty!
Soak
Swash
Squeeze
Repeat.
What magnificent art
Such extraordinary
masterpieces
being created
night after night
across this marble floor!
Why,
Michaelangelo would be
turning in his grave!
A shame though,
That the paint is clear
and it dries away in about
15-20 minutes
and no one will
ever see or know
the greatest art ever created
by you,
the unknown custodian,
the master of sanitations,
the mop artist.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
well... technically every *********** is an abortion,
i have it all the time, but when a woman has it,
esp. a Russian orthodox rich girl
it's time to call the Mamelukes
because "a mongol horde is invading",
there was nothing legally binding me
to alimony payments, no marriage
certificate, but my friend,
you meddle in other people's private life,
think you're the man with a career
in law but end up staging
your little: the judge, the jury the executioner
in your bedroom? FORGET IT!
you're just a lawyer, a scavenger,
you don't get to play the game 'who's your daddy'
so easily... you think you're allowed to provide
the architecture of a courtroom in your bedroom...
you're wrong.
take your little orthodox russian *****
with my ******* son and live a long life...
i asked her: i don't mind using condoms,
she said, ********* into me, i'm on
contraceptive pills... two apartments
in St. Petersburg and getting a degree in Edinburgh
you think she's poor? doubt it,
i'm not going to be a ploughing work-horse...
and forging your attempt to placebo the pills with lies...
all that feminism and still the russian
girls think they're killing a human being...
but like i said: the bladder and the ****
develop outside the womb, well brain too,
but the **** and bladder are more important
for the ***** what you're aborting
is just as much a tadpole as a fishy stink;
is your argument caused by the fact
that you gave the Star of Bethlehem to Jesus
and not Joseph because of Mary's fancy
for a centurion? it has to be! way-hey mainstream,
give it to the kid and you get Freud...
god i hate Freud... not because he's a jew,
it just made the whole being born a neurosis,
you need test-tubes, surrogate mothers, IVF,
two Elton Johns to not feel a stigma...
even if the world is harsh on you and you end up
living with your parents... mother *******
if they all adopted the Caesarian technique of giving
birth there would be no Freud;
well say goodbye to Darwin with that...
obstructing the Caesarian intervention with Genesis quotes
will still produce heads sticking out of vaginas
and by god that's no Michaelangelo.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
They call me Mr.Cadaver
Dead,yet living in hospitals
And schools where they teach how to become doctors
Oh!Doctors My only true lover
I died of a natural disease
You know,the one where you constantly sneeze
Too poor to be buried
Too poor to be burned
So I was embalmed
In certain chemicals
Formaldehyde,then frozen
And in this form turned
It wasn't easy at first
Young eyes looking at me suspiciously
The weak-hearted watching disgustedly
But as time(I have much of it)
Went by I got used to it
I was dissected by stainless steel
So that they could learn how to heal
These various tissues,body parts well
I knew my worth when departed
I was a precise model
Of a living person
With my help
So many learnt
Basic human anatomy
Which vein goes where
Where lies the spleen
So whenever you are on the hospital bed
Remember
My death gave another life to thee
They sell me for many a dollar
To the blue-eyed scholar
And I will become his loyal friend
I may look creepy
But that's just because I'm dead
The teacher points to various places
On me , sometimes I feel a little ticklish
But I a satisfied by the curious eyes
Who are learning about me for your benefit
And when the session expires
My second life,it must retire
But they extract my bones
Put the skeletal frame in a museum
Or break it into pieces
And give it to students of various fields
The dentists want the cranium
I'm bloodless
Anatomy's life bood
So bow down to me
Ye first year students
I taught Da Vinci how to draw a man
Taught Michaelangelo how to sculpt
From Ancient Greece to modern medicine
My death has given life to many humans
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 3:21 PM UTC
she takes ashes and sculpts them
into new perspectives. new lives.
beginnings are like sweets at her fingers
colourful, varied on the tongue.
she can taste different directions before she commits
that’s just who she is
she is beautiful
waves of hair and a pierced nose
a ***** neo michaelangelo
sitting there in youth
patience in her tiring muscles
until she freezes into womanhood
on planes of smoothed stone.
she has grown beyond my stature;
an adult born in a huff of breath
that pours over our lives
her new status matches the pull of her eyes-
wells of blue insistence, i’m here, i’m here
I’ve grazed myself on eighteen,
I wear my newness well.
when she covers her arms in bracelets
hard little planets
that orbit her statement-
i’m me hello world i’m just me
when she paints her eyelids
lips
lashes
dying herself new
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
Across the room I watch you from afar
So much to see, so much to admire
I can only gawk in awe:
Shimmering softly beneath the party
lights
Delicate as fine porcelain, elegant just
like a China doll
Little Perky ! diminutive little button
of a nose
A sublime protuberance, with a
wonderful angular symmetry;
Like a beautiful ballerina in the centre
of the face
One lonely Cinderella, forever
overlooked and unsung
Neglected, passed over, the great
unmentioned one;
So still and so quiet, mysterious like a
question mark -
"Little Perky, don't you fret, I! Me!
I'll be your poet though a poor poet I
be
I'll hold up your charms for the whole
wide world to see,
I'll be your dashing Prince too, if you
let me".
Finely chiselled, exquisitely sculpted
Better than any Michaelangelo
And I love the little wiggle;
How silently you sit there and how
patient, enduring all
Stuck between the two drama Queens
Eyes all painted up, that flit and dart
Twinkling and fluttering outrageously
like their a class apart,
And a rouged up Mouth's sulky lips,
burning rubber
Busy gabbing away, running off like a
wild piano;
But then there's you Little Perky,
simplicity itself
Shy bulbous beauty, a throwback to
childhoods innocent days:
Like the others, you play the game
You go along but it's not the same,
See you sniff into your little hankie
And know that beneath, you're
probably not all that happy,
You seem to say (to me at least)
" I hoped for more, I dreamt - I dreamt
of other things
And other nights than these".
I see you Little Perky, I see you all
alone in your lonely prison cell
I hear your sniffles, your silent sobs
and sighs.
When pinned in the corner and
assailed from all sides
My eyes, they secretly run to your
quiet hill, that lonely mountain,
Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights
I'll wait for you Little One
I'll wait for you there..... my Cathy
(O! lovely wild and spirited Cathy)
I'll wait for you through the wind, the
rain and the snow
I'll wait for you to come
I'll wait for the real 'You' to show,
Beyond all the bravado and the big
bluster notes
Beyond the crowds constraining looks
I'll wait for you, my Love,
We'll laugh again, and dance beneath
the stars
We'll live the dreams that once we had.
Little Perky, sweet alarm bell of the
soul, shiny little bugle that gleams
Go on now, give it one more blow
One huge giant elephantine blast
That'll sweep them all away
And leave only you and me here,
alone at last
Facing each other across this floor
O! Little Perky, my Cinderella, my
Cathy.......my Heart!
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
If Leonardo Da Vinci were still alive
He would have been put in the psych ward back in 1965
If MichaelAngelo were still around
instead of soaring on the ceiling
he'd be trampled on the ground
If Bach came back
he'd come under attack
for being too radical and extreme
just because he followed his dreams
society today
pushes artists away
using it's dark manipulative hand
to make graffiti artists into outlaws
and satanists out of rock bands
so if you find yourself asking where is the Da Vinci of today
just look in the backstreets, corners, and the alleyways
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
The iron in your blood is palpable
And as my nose discovered it
It was like a new religion to me-
A break into your apartment
In the middle of the night,
Wearing knee socks and a football jersey,
Hallowing religious experience.
And as much as you like them
I can NOT appreciate Corn flakes.
My feline has found a base in my guitar case
Much like I have made a mansion,
A toasty nest in your dominance wafting veins.
Watching her lay there
I understand
What it is like to be.
What it is like to be
the supplier of ultimates
And not ultimatums.
Like how God feels when he see someone
Bathe in the diminutive properties.
And as much as you like them
I cannot appreciate Corn flakes.
They taste like toenails.
I want to fasten my seatbelt to this.
I want to send you text messages
That are blank and know you know exactly
What I meant to say.
I want to make love to you
Without ever touching you
Because grip might be too rough
For what subsists here.
I will eat your Cornflakes, Mr. Prufrock-
I will eat them up.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
Truth is the daughter of time.
Lies are at best her half brothers.
Truth longs for a lover to come;
her milky whiteness uncovered.
She does not wish to be ruled
by the Crown or by Papal decree.
She is not Agenda's handmaiden,
she simply longs to be free.
Had I but the skills of a Goya
I could make Truth's beauty well known.
Michaelangelo, too, could portray her
for truth's often captured in stone.
Some will tell you that
Truth is quite beautiful,
as the last of her veils hits the floor.
I agree that her figure's impeccable;
She always leaves me wanting more
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Once every few years she is around,
but she is still around. She is around enough nough to shine light on the constantly dying life that is my own. She is around every few years when the trees hold their supreme grace. Every few years, in the Summertime she is around. And every few years we meet, in the countryside blanketing the city. It's on a bench, we meet. A bench overlooking a crisp-yellow field of sunflowers, much inferior in beauty, to her radiant stare. She sits down beside me. The smell of her perfume overwhelms my senses, like a single wave in the ocean, greeting a lonely rock. Before any bit of music flows from her luscious, but naked lips, she presents a cigarette. The damp and silent air is filled with the subtle crackle of a match being lit. The flame, meeting the tip of the cigarette, now burning with complete compatibility. She exhales a perfect funnel, and we watch as the smoke disappears into the gentle breeze. She offers it to me, as I take a breath to decline, she entraps my vulnerable soul with her mesmerizing gaze. Michaelangelo himself could not have created a more perfect pair. Like two planets, holding all the beauty and mystery, in the universe. I remove it from her silky hands as she smiles. A small but powerful smile holding the very definition of perfection. "Hello." I feel helpless as the warm tone of her voice fills the air around me. My ears have not heard a more aesthetically pleasing sound since the last time we met. It is as though I am hearing the word for the first time. "Hello," I say back. We sit in silence for a while. Side by side, her leg gently pressed against mine. Not a word yet spoken, and I cannot be more satisfied. She eventually speaks. She tells stories of the years passed. The world, shrinking as I listen. Word after word as the sun begins to slowly retire. Hours pass and she falls asleep in my arms. Upon sunrise we will go our separate ways. But in this moment of time standing still, I rejoice.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
If Michaelangelo,
Were alive today,
He would sculpt your svelte and lithe figure,
Into the finest Italian marble,
Marble that would last for ten thousand years,
So all men, from this day forward,
Would have the opportunity,
To perceive and envision,
That which only,
He and God could create.
She laughed at me,
Again.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 7:49 AM UTC
Jane opened her hands
and the butterfly
fluttered off
across the grass
and you watched
and she told you
what its name was
and its colouring
but you
were more focused
on her hands
the fingers held so
as if Michaelangelo
might have
painted them
in a creative urge
to pin down
an example
of beauty
and as her voice
spoke on
you saw the hands
come together
and embrace
and caress
each other
as you both walked
along the lane
between
high hedges
first this finger pointed
then that
gesturing towards
this flower
then that
names came
and colouring
and her voice sang
as she talked
the words
being flung
in the air
like a juggler's *****
and you reached out
to catch each word
and place
its meaning
but her eyes
caught you
the colour
the brightness
and fires flamed there
and they grow
only here
she said
so I’ve read
her words said
and the lips parted
just to allow
words to go
like busy bees
to work
and the glimpse
of teeth and tongue
and what do you think?
she said
beautiful stuff
you replied
not quite
the words
you wished for
but which came
like lazy boy's
to school
they are
she said smiling
her hands parting
one reaching
for yours
O that
may have been Heaven
for all you knew
a bright
sun-blessed smile
out of the blue.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Divine Michaelangelo,
a name the whole world knows.
Dear genius of the arts
a captor of young hearts.
I hear the world has handed you
roses and praises for what you drew,
and no one knows more about your greatness
no one else but you,
but I love you.
I love you...
I'll give you my heart, Michaelangelo
what will you make out of it?
Could you create something splendid
as you have done with David?
And you did.
A work of the great,
chiseled a masterpiece, but I can't deny the pain.
My love was yours but you didn't want it in exchange.
You were blinded by pride's game.
But when the universe asked for its prize
and took away the great man's sight,
you lost it all, and we watched you fall.
But I helped you up, and stayed with you
despite it all.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
Musei Vaticani may be meaningful, however
I would rather pace the hallways of
the thin spaces that part the seas of your fingers.
Maybe Michaelangelo was wrong
The creation of man isn't meant for Sistine ceilings but the head of our beds.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
In the midst of all of this dismantling
itself into it's revolting component honesty, I try to remember the way
your arousal changed the hue of the space around you.
Memory or fantasy or dream
or lie or ecstatic state; bottles filled with coloured sand and then sealed up into boxes left by the street.
If only someone could sculpt the dance we do between the moments
of a waking life crystallizing into grotesque simplifications rattling chains in the labrynth we build for loneliness.
I try to chisel some aspect of it into wind and rain.
I try to pick out your breathing
among the howling infinity outside and my edges are reasserted by the glare of life's shadow.
My name is that of any pile of bones ever to have a candal held for it.
My path is undetermined, unfettered from the seething potential beneath all things.
Explode with me.
We can paint the crumbling walls of our illusory disconnection like a drunken Michaelangelo laughing at the absurdity he is a part of.
**** rules, style, message, time, space, words.
**** it all.
Just go mad.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 9:49 AM UTC
We don't fight. Not really.
Set the scene:
i do something stupid.
This could be a great number of things
but even i agree they're all stupid.
You know i agree but are usually still mad.
and always rightly so.
Our relationship is far healthier
with this understanding and yet
in this time i almost wish we fought.
At least i'd have a side worth defending.
Instead your face turns into an ice sculpture made by Michaelangelo,
not the ninja turtle.
In this time, without my best friend
(companion, confidante)
i am alone.
Slowly your anger melts away.
You give me your hand. You kiss me.
In this time I know that all is right in this world, even if it is one where I ***** things up, as I am loved by the one I love.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
We were seventeen and I carved
your silhouette like Michaelangelo
carved David -- but instead of leaving
your statue in a museum, I nailed
it to my mind.
This way, the guards wouldn't
run toward me every time I tried
to touch you.
Three years have gone by and the summer
has ended, but I haven't found the strength
to dismantle your statue.
When I walk through the hallways of
my mind it's always the first thing I see,
morning or midday or night.
Sometimes I'm surprised to see your marble
eyes staring back at me, and for a moment
I'm amazed that I once had the imagination
and artistic ability to build
you from nothing.
You are the statue of David.
I am ready to take a hammer and
tear you down, to let dynamite explode
next to you. But something stops
me every time.
Because how can I destroy such
a masterpiece? A work of art that I've
put months and years into?
So you remain an exhibit,
glorious. So you remain a distraction.
Because every time I walk by you, no
matter where I'm headed or how much
of a rush I am in to get there, I'm
compelled to stop and stare.
You are the statue of David.
And I am a seventeen-year-old girl
who was once kicked out of the museum
for getting too close.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
I don’t love you like a woman typically loves a man,
With mushy words and hearts and fireworks.
I love you like the ocean crashes onto the shore.
Or how Spring melts the snow with its warmth.
I love you in a way, that a child loves their childhood toy,
Unconditionally without cause, simply because I can.
My love for you isn’t black and white,
I love you more with shades of gray.
I love you with heartfelt immaturity, like a teenager
In love for the first time, finding any reason to fall head
Over heels again, and again,
Because you make me feel like I’m walking on clouds,
Feeling giddy about falling for you, everyday, over again
For the rest of my life.
I love you like paper soaks up ink from the pen,
Uncontrollable and hungry for more words to be,
Written of infatuation and adoration.
I love you, like the dots go above the i’s,
And the lines go through the t’s,
Or how a period at the end of strewn together words,
Somehow makes it a sentence.
I love you the way, the Sistine Chapel was painted,
With slow broad strokes, and the patience of a steady hand.
I paint you with words, the way Michaelangelo, Van Gough, and Picasso painted the world;
With beauty, undying love, devotion and truth.
And because I know of no other way to love you, than this,
You will always be a beautiful masterpiece,
That I was more than lucky enough to find,
Along the way through my journey of life.
And I promise to never repaint you,
Or tarnish your frame,
But to love you the way you were made,
Priceless Perfection...
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 4:42 AM UTC
You stand there, on the other side of the room
your shadowy soul taking refuge in
your perfectly Sculpted body
Surely Angels sang
uttering music as sweet
as the simple syrup in my Lime Rickey
while they formed your body's Symmetry
from moist, dense mass of Clay
And your steel-gray Eyes!
how they Penetrate my soul to its very Core!
as you approach me I notice the grace in your gait,
the nonchalant placing of one worn Boot before another.
It gives me endless pleasure to be the fortunate witness of such Beauty of form, and I whisper a Prayer of thanks
when you Stop directly to my right
extend your Hand,
with its beautiful palm
of worn Leather like that you wear on your feet
and in it i place mine:
small
white
trembling
You guide me to the dance floor;
i am blushing, unsure of what is to follow.
We dance close
you lean in Closer
and
here you are with your sweet Lips on mine,
your delicious tongue meets my nervous one
and I can feel the rhythm of your Heart in your chest,
beating Morse code
singing joyfully to its Creator
My thoughts: surely this is the body Michaelangelo sought for his David,
undeniably this is the very essence of masculinity
here in the body of my mysterious, shadowy companion
i find nothing but Bliss.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 12:00 PM UTC