Hand softly against your cheek.
Lips pressed to your ear.
The whisper drifts into your consciousness, almost inaudible.
It's a request. A wish. A desire. A quench for passion.
The words tickle your canal as they enter.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall.
The speaker does not own these words but rather they own you.
Captivating, filled with desire, a yearning, wanting more.
As they trickle in, you process the slivering snakelike progression of words that just met your ear.
"Kiss me."
The very word "kiss" can set you on fire.
There's something about the word.
The way it's sharp and bold in the beginning...
Yet...electrifying at the end.
It is drawn out, poetic, tongue tying.
If you close your eyes, you can almost envision getting lost in the letters.
First, there's the K.
That crisp, clean K that is proud yet does not boast.
That K cuts like a knife, no not a knife, a kite, it cuts like a kite, soaring high into the sky. Never planning on coming down.
Then, you've got the I.
It stands tall but it's shy and sandwiched in the middle.
It cowers from the past and even more fearful of what is to come.
It is elusive, slightly ****, coy, perhaps even unattainable.
Then you've got the electrifying, alliterative "ss."
Almost as if you're not ready for the word to end, holding, dare I say, clinging onto those last precious letters, dragging out every last sound.
Every last breath has come to this.
"Kiss."
It comes and then goes before you can say it.
Fearful of missing it.
You hang onto that "S" for it is the last thing that ties you to this.
Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
Once you've said it, never stop saying it.
Kiss Kiss Kiss.
All good things, though, must go. Then the time comes to let it be.
So then you say,"Kiss me."

I

Winter is long in this climate
and spring—a matter of a few days
only,—a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.

     II

March,
           you reminded me of
the pyramids, our pyramids—
stript of the polished stone
that used to guard them!
                                    March,
you are like Fra Angelico
at Fiesole, painting on plaster!

March,
             you are like a band of
young poets that have not learned
the blessedness of warmth
(or have forgotten it).
At any rate—
I am moved to write poetry
for the warmth there is in it
and for the loneliness—
a poem that shall have you
    in it March.

     III

See!
         Ashur-ban-i-pal,
the archer king, on horse-back,
in blue and yellow enamel!
with drawn bow—facing lions
standing on their hind legs,
fangs bared!  his shafts
bristling in their necks!

Sacred bulls—dragons
in embossed brickwork
marching—in four tiers—
along the sacred way to
Nebuchadnezzar’s throne hall!
They shine in the sun,
they that have been marching—
marching under the dust of
ten thousand dirt years.

Now—
they are coming into bloom again!
See them!
marching still, bared by
the storms from my calender
—winds that blow back the sand!
winds that enfilade dirt!
winds that by strange craft
have whipt up a black army
that by pick and shovel
bare a procession to
                               the god, Marduk!

Natives cursing and digging
for pay unearth dragons with
upright tails and sacred bulls
alternately—
                      in four tiers—
lining the way to an old altar!
Natives digging at old walls—
digging me warmth—digging me sweet loneliness
high enamelled walls.

     IV

My second spring—
passed in a monastery
with plaster walls—in Fiesole
on the hill above ‘Florence.
My second spring—painted
a ******—in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed—
she is intently serious,
                                  and still
watching an angel
with colored wings
half kneeling before her—
and smiling—the angel’s eyes
holding the eyes of Mary
as a snake’s hold a bird’s.
On the ground there are flowers,
trees are in leaf.

     V

But! now for the battle!
Now for ******—now for the real thing!
My third springtime is approaching!
Winds!
lean, serious as a ******,
seeking, seeking the flowers of March.

Seeking
flowers nowhere to be found,
they twine among the bare branches
in insatiable eagerness—
they whirl up the snow
seeking under it—
they—the winds—snakelike
roar among yellow reeds
seeking flowers—flowers.

I spring among them
seeking one flower
in which to warm myself!

I deride with all the ridicule
of misery—
my own starved misery.

Counter-cutting winds
    strike against me
refreshing their fury!

Come, good, cold fellows!
    Have we no flowers?
Defy then with even more
desperation than ever—being
    lean and frozen!

But though you are lean and frozen—
think of the blue bulls of Babylon.

Fling yourselves upon
    their empty roses—
              cut savagely!

But—
think of the painted monastery
  at Fiesole.

I

Winter is long in this climate
and spring—a matter of a few days
only,—a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.

     II

March,
           you reminded me of
the pyramids, our pyramids—
stript of the polished stone
that used to guard them!
                                    March,
you are like Fra Angelico
at Fiesole, painting on plaster!

March,
             you are like a band of
young poets that have not learned
the blessedness of warmth
(or have forgotten it).
At any rate—
I am moved to write poetry
for the warmth there is in it
and for the loneliness—
a poem that shall have you
    in it March.

     III

See!
         Ashur-ban-i-pal,
the archer king, on horse-back,
in blue and yellow enamel!
with drawn bow—facing lions
standing on their hind legs,
fangs bared!  his shafts
bristling in their necks!

Sacred bulls—dragons
in embossed brickwork
marching—in four tiers—
along the sacred way to
Nebuchadnezzar’s throne hall!
They shine in the sun,
they that have been marching—
marching under the dust of
ten thousand dirt years.

Now—
they are coming into bloom again!
See them!
marching still, bared by
the storms from my calender
—winds that blow back the sand!
winds that enfilade dirt!
winds that by strange craft
have whipt up a black army
that by pick and shovel
bare a procession to
                               the god, Marduk!

Natives cursing and digging
for pay unearth dragons with
upright tails and sacred bulls
alternately—
                      in four tiers—
lining the way to an old altar!
Natives digging at old walls—
digging me warmth—digging me sweet loneliness
high enamelled walls.

     IV

My second spring—
passed in a monastery
with plaster walls—in Fiesole
on the hill above ‘Florence.
My second spring—painted
a ******—in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed—
she is intently serious,
                                  and still
watching an angel
with colored wings
half kneeling before her—
and smiling—the angel’s eyes
holding the eyes of Mary
as a snake’s hold a bird’s.
On the ground there are flowers,
trees are in leaf.

     V

But! now for the battle!
Now for ******—now for the real thing!
My third springtime is approaching!
Winds!
lean, serious as a ******,
seeking, seeking the flowers of March.

Seeking
flowers nowhere to be found,
they twine among the bare branches
in insatiable eagerness—
they whirl up the snow
seeking under it—
they—the winds—snakelike
roar among yellow reeds
seeking flowers—flowers.

I spring among them
seeking one flower
in which to warm myself!

I deride with all the ridicule
of misery—
my own starved misery.

Counter-cutting winds
    strike against me
refreshing their fury!

Come, good, cold fellows!
    Have we no flowers?
Defy then with even more
desperation than ever—being
    lean and frozen!

But though you are lean and frozen—
think of the blue bulls of Babylon.

Fling yourselves upon
    their empty roses—
              cut savagely!

But—
think of the painted monastery
  at Fiesole.

A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.

Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.

The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.

Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.

This pain is eternal.

there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording

her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children

there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute

where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy

with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step

somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans

Lazily I slip along the mud bank, gliding with out a sound.
Low tide demands my interest to pass within the marsh.
Snakelike, I travel the path that time has set
I round each bend to wondrous creatures big and small.

Be it heron bird or turtle sunning on a stump, they greet me,
but only to a point – away they go!  I have disturbed their day.
Forgiveness is assumed as they flee to a comfortable distance.
We gain equilibrium of trust, the creatures and me.

Neither wanting nor fearing, we enjoy our moment of faith.
Again, the tide demands my attention as I touch upon the bank.
I bid farewell to my companions and travel down the way.
The next turn is calling, new friendships to be found.

Time grows short, as the day passes and the surge is rushing in.
Freedom from the banks has her price - I see the marsh no more.
Only the Spartina reaches above the waves, bidding me time to go.
I row now, home with a smile, for soon I will see my companions again.

Come,
let me coil snakelike
round your mousy faced complexion,
spinning till
I squeeze the life back in to you.
You'll be wrapped tight in me,
forget where I end, and
I'll swallow you whole into us.

Think of it as a bad dream...

You're sleeping soundly
on a Greyhound bus

Suddenly you're awakened
by cold water
creeping up your shoes
inching over your ankles

You jump up
only now it's too late

The door of the bus
is locked
from the outside

The windows are stuck and
the glass can't be shattered
no matter how hard you pound

The water is no longer gradual
It is swift, rushing upward
enclosing your body
past your waist
up to your chest
covering your neck

In seconds
there will be no place
left to breathe
just the rapid snakelike swirl
of ***** water

You're left submerged
Your eyes sealed shut
Your hands gnarled
in a deathlike grip...
You're hopelessly caught
in the rising, surging
pull of water
moving out of a river
onto the city streets

This Island, draped with the moss of the past
And drowned in the foggy mist of the future
Lies awake, breathing under a darkened sky.
My trembling hand touches the black silence,
Caressing its blank face and wooing it.
A lonely voice rips the quiet into dusty shreds
And leaves them to rot on the ground.
“It is him,” it says. “I remember him from long ago,
In a land far from here. I remember him
And his shining laugh, and his darting eyes.
He shot the hearts of young women with unseen arrows,
But from the ranks of men he remained
As a the dying earth to an newborn skylark
When it first tastes the sweet fragrance of freedom
And never looks back. Who would look back?”
A distant blue memory finds its feet in my mind
And travels down the forsaken labyrinth, invisible,
Until it gorges its divine spear into my heart
And shakes me awake. My eyes relent.
She hovers over my unfeeling face, and Lady Dream
Smiles on me. I find blessed comfort in that gaze
And my mind wanders into lush green meadows,
Blind once more to the Nightmare Forest.
The voice speaks again. It is Master Fletcher.
The Lady’s sharp retort slays his words.
“Shut your mouth,” says Dream. “He has known more
Than you can ever imagine. He has seen things.
Let him have his long-deserved repose.”
A thought from the Other World coils and wraps
Its snakelike loops around the victim of my mind.
Fletcher appears, young and bright as ever,
Regarding me with dancing eyes, under windswept hair.
Suspicions, secrets, wonderings, all rush inside
At the cheery sight of his roguish face.
I have heard tales of an unknown curse
On an unknown friend. Is it this friend?
Fire in my bones, a river of pain, I stand.
A whirlwind of feelings, colors, questions,
Drown me in the black sea of Unknown.
“Careful,” Dream warns. I gaze at her moonlit face.
My heavy question drops, and she watches it fall,
Wasted words wishing in a wasted world.
“I do not know,” she says. “It is a desolate place,
Forsaken in a jungle of twisted vines and branches.
Mother Earth breathed her sweet life here, softly,
Crafting a forest of flowers and outlandish beasts.
But it has left her wild mind for a thousand years
And in that aged time, it has become green and lost
Under an overgrown fortress of ruin and rock.
The trees have twisted faces, and all that grows
Can speak in tongues I understand, and Fletcher
Hears them likewise. The sky rages both in day
And in silver night, and the air is as a warm sea
Heavy and swirling in an unseen storm.
The beasts, fowl creatures, have manlike voices
And villainous minds, feeding like vultures
On the young, and wolves on the grown.
One day and one night have we lived here.
This is a desolate, abandoned place.”
Her flashing words release me from my spell;
The enchantment drops like silk to the grass.
“Endless water surrounds this place,” adds the boy.
“And serpent-demons dwell in that eternal ocean.”
The shaft of his beloved words pierces my heart,
Despite the poison on its sharpened tip.
“At least I am not alone,” say I, flogged by fear
And shackled by the chains of my affection.

You send me a song every Wednesday,

a soul offering; a slice of the strange radioactive
lunatic madness -
love-
growing inside your wonderland.
(It is not a cancerous tumour, please stop calling it that.)
You say it is dark, the Arctic's lover;
I say it is dark, like
velvet punk music and
stained checked shirts and
almost-blood wine (in shared glasses); like
the colour of your skin.

Come on.
We've both been more fascinated by the depths of the ocean
than the blue glass surfaces.
Isn't that why we fell into bottomless black holes and called it
love?
Isn't that why we branded ourselves poets,
seared the red hot poker labels onto our backs,
so that we wouldn't have to say we're just
sad...?

Yes, we are carefully disintegrating;
the world already gave us a head-start
by curling our spines into the snakelike 'S'
It was preparing us
for our careful meandering
into a river mess:
living.

No doubt, in the pool depths of African evenings,
you drink,
*****-tinged cereal or tea,  
the glass Roobios surface reflecting
a lover's face and the boredom of sadness.
No doubt, I drink to you,
coffee or warm milk,
to try and wake myself into
dying without a purpose.
No doubt, we both drink
the night itself.
And let it fester in our veins,
to curdle our blood into that same wine-shade of
darkness.
We drink.

Virginia Woolf had courage,
Sylvia Plath had courage,
Ernest Hemingway had courage,
you and I don't.
We are too fearless to live.
So we drink
and clutch at each other desperately
without reaching out a single finger.
We form shotguns with our hands, make pacts, go
home again.
And drink.

We are helping each other to die
and live
at the same time.
We are helping each other to try fit the day
too
into our arteries.

You send me a song every Wednesday;
this song will save our existence.

Little children love to come dancing,
Like tiny raindrops falling from heaven;
Glimpses into their unspoiled hearts,
Spread joyous rapture we can not measure.
Fallen angels come silently flying,
Like forlorned agents of lonely desire,
Their wings so gossamer, light as feathers,
How sad and distant their hearts are crying.
Furious demons come creeping along,
Slithering snakelike in the darkest hours,
Longing to carve their history in blood,
Causing great havoc on all who will listen.
Transparent clouds come floating freely,
Holding miracles of peace on this earth;
Hoping and healing we bask in their glory,
Knowing that faith is the beacon of light.

Strike— bare, boastful light.
Snakelike, your silver serenity
Strike with firm, flaunting fatality
Surrender then, to specks flush-light.
Split asunder, your thriving fragility
Shuddering then, a humble complexity
Shimmering so lovingly bright.
Spin I the crystals; your dancing simplicity
Simplicity— oh, so generous in its creativity
Scarce old stars rather I,
                       than sun’s lifeless white.

You
with your intriguing, snakelike lies
your cocophanous ragings
You
with your overused words
apparently I wasn't the only one
You
with your arrogant charm
making everyone feel special
when in reality
it's all a joke
a play
my oh my,
you were one of the best **** actors I've ever seen

Last night I dreamed of you again.
We were together in a crowd,
And I turned and walked away
into a silent, sunny forest.

Trees knotted into strange shapes,
Like lifesize bonsai.
I struggled over swollen roots
Exuding damp moss,
And slipped down an incline,
Into your arms.

You had followed me there,
Caught me, saved me,
But you dropped my hand as I slipped it into yours
And walked on, talking, expecting me to follow.

I’m done following, though,
And turned immediately,
Struggling on over the resistant landscape,
Over a ridge and across another of those bulging, snakelike trees.
I didn’t think you’d follow,
But again, there you were.

I asked you why you’d dropped my hand.
I know what I want, you replied
But I don't think you do,
And I'm trying to do the right thing.

I find myself wanting to ask, why? Why now?
Why, when I am over the confusion and the pain,
When I am past the most dangerous phase of withdrawal.

But, oh, that’s right – it didn’t really happen.
And I wasn’t really there.

I felt the heat of the thing.
Dragon breath,
Silk skin stirring
Slurring snakelike. flowing
mouth muscles maneuvering me like a map.
meaty fleshy heavy
strongly, musky, dewy bodied, dense demanding maladjusted dragon
of-a-thing.

blood slithers snakelike
from cold neck to grated hole
a serpent in hell

i live my life as a series of moments
strung together as a spiders web
yours is a mass of accomplishments
thrown into a suitcase, shoved under a bed
in emulsions a critical factor is heat
to bind unlike substances for a period of time
cold calculations and even colder feet
lead to the disintegration of a futile design
so the heat dies away as it eventually does
and we pass each other, strangers on the street
your shadowy sweetness lingers only because
you worked your way into me firm and complete
but the moment you withdrew in a snakelike deft
is precisely the moment i got up and left

I wasn’t looking
for God, but I
found the Devil,

He slid his
hands up my
skirt, rosary
beads and
all, breathing
skewed
bible verses
into my ******
ears like Mary,

The only tongue
he spoke in
was the one
he was sliding
down my throat,
forked and
snakelike,

He told me,
"Your absence
of faith is pleasing
though incorrect,
you see, just as
seeing doesn’t
mean believing,
rejecting something
doesn’t rob it of
it’s existence.
That means your
sin still counts.”

And I will burn in Hell,
just like everyone else.

- S.G.

I remember dark warm nights of love
When you were nothing more
Than a trembling shadow in my arms

For I was strong from years of reformation
I suppose I sat upon your knee too long
Or ****** too full the poison of your mother breast

Now my rainy day: a yesterday's nothing
And no one to take this tomorrow from my lips
I thought the moon sad until I saw the Sun cry

For years He hid his face away
And though you snakelike
Coil and crawl, I won't step on you
Because you bit me once in love.

Kennedy’s dead, Warne said.
Cole couldn’t comprehend.
The President? Jack you mean?

Things seemed simple then.
Now he knew the dark truth
Of how things fell into place.

Warne had lied about the facts,
Distorted matters; brought in
The Oswald myth and kept it

Going. Cole sips his *****
Looks across the city, wonders
How it will all pan out in the

End, whether truth will out.
The girl enters the room and
Sits beside him; half dressed

In simple reds, some foreign
Chick he'd picked up some weeks
Back, feeling lonely. She kisses

His cheek; simple thing kissing.
Something not there though;
Something missing. Kennedy’s

Dead, Warne had said. Cole
Remembers seeing that other
Photograph of Jack’s head part

Blown away. He sips his drink,
Feels the girl’s lips, wet and
Warm, remembers, forgets,

The Oswald myth, the lone
Shooter, blood on Jackie’s
Coat. The girl licks his ear,

Snakelike, worming the wet
Pointed end, another orifice
To explore. Jack’s gone; head

Blown apart; Warne passed
Away some years back, ******
Up heart. Cole sighs, the girl

Moves away, the ear wet with
Spittle; nothing matters now,
He muses darkly, or very little.

This heart stops,
Chataclismic disaster,
A rushing sound fills mine head,
Rushing and working, realizing I'm dead...
A popping sensation explodes these brainiatic molecules..
I step out side mine self..
I see the surgeon's and nurses,
A scapal bloodied and marked, I see the stars and an arch..
I hear all words being spoken as if no one may see me,
Can anyone hear me I yell?
Through a tunnel I fell,
Downwards to thine pit...
In a cell made of spit I can see the snakelike creatures,
Hungry for human spirit!!!
They try to bite and they gnash,
I bow to hands and knees,
Crying!!!!
(Lords prayer comes to mind)
For the demons eyes go blind,
As suddenly......
I'm pulled up back into the tunnel,
I'm starting to regain compassion feeling and pure muscle,
I feel Alive once again,
Washed from these sins,
I see mine own self....
Standing...
With ark angel Michael with the universe on his shoulders
I feel instantaneously overjoyed,
No more sin, no skin void,
An angelic choir I can hear in the background,
As the father's son comes forward..
His light in twixt to your own,
As no need to speak with your lips,
But telepathic gestures...
Your and his thoughts grow bigger,
As around his throne room you shall bow../
I was saved somehow.......!!!!!!!

I wasn’t looking
for God, but I
found the Devil,

He slid his
hands up my
skirt, rosary
beads and
all, breathing
skewed
bible verses
into my ******
ears like Mary,

The only tongue
he spoke in
was the one
he was sliding
down my throat,
forked and
snakelike,

He told me,
"Your absence
of faith is pleasing
though incorrect,
you see, just as
seeing doesn’t
mean believing,
rejecting something
doesn’t rob it of
it’s existence.
That means your
sin still counts.”

And I will burn in Hell,
just like everyone else.

- S.G.

Her body wrapped around the white sheets snakelike.
Eyes half shut and hair tucked behind her ear she took a deep breath then in a post ******* state rolled her eyes closed them, smiled and bit her bottom lip with a half smile.
As my fingers ran down her spine there was only one thing on my mind.
"Now you have to leave him" I whispered softly as I kissed her neck with the conviction of a man possessed consumed by all she had to offer.

"Bzzir Bzauchi Bzzirya"
Said the treptonite whilst hissing it's tongue to a snakelike reflex,
                 *"Cutreen Cutyl Cuttiness"
Said the gorzolias whilst arms flailing at it's rugged pecs.
                                  "WHAT THE ****?"
Said the human with wide eyes staring at the inhuman abominations.
                            "THEY ARE DIFFERENT, SHOOT THEM ALL DOWN"
Said the human as he reached for his weapon of extermination.
               "We come in pea...."
Said the two inhuman abominations....

                      

News Article : *Creatures unlike man shot down in what appears to be a police shootout. The creatures will be experimented on to determine their genus and abilities. Should any uses for their bodies appear, we will publish all scientific evidence of such to the Journal of Scientific Discovery.

But deceptive blood-robed pomegranates
With their piteous decay, and sullen seeds
Packed as kids’ taut skins in sand-tinted crates;
With bloom, with ruin, and sweet as reeds
Them reeds naught know of plain parched mourn
As wails it and yields to their illiterate lips;
As stumbles then snakelike out— thin and worn.
Begotten unwanted, poorly fathomed, forgotten wisps
Of old, odourless leisured hours,
That scrubbed, so gruntled, and scratched the fruit.
Then white silks soft within parched blue days;
And no heirs birthed, sublimed the flowers.
Touch it; the crumple and crêpe is not yet soot
If it could bleed, it could bloom alive, ablaze.

Chain coiled snakelike now rusting remnant,
heavy and dust brown carpet,
unmoving, unmoved.
Light fallen shadow brightness as fingers unclenched,
Illusion of clarity as focus tenses,
tightening, tightened.
Industrial presence now industrial ghosts,
walk booted dockside granite grey,
spice scented,
tangible memory.