Your hands molded melted silver,
arranging amethysts and amber.
My hands grasped the clasp;
your fingers fingered my breasts.
You serenaded my neck with your lips,
dusting me with specks
from your grass-greening hands.
Bearded boy beneath my palms;
labial lullabies beneath sylvan shadows.
Love was the word I could not speak,
the word you would have spoken.
When your hands molded my necklace, our token,
did sapphires sing beneath your palms
like our love unspoken?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Sulking
I stand by the window whose pane is crying.
The flowers you gave me are specks of dust:
Your lips were soft against my own, my hands
explored your pubic hair like love.
We would
explore ourselves in naked summer’s mirrors.
Your nails got stuck in hair that shook like leaves;
I see leaves shake outside my windowpane.
Are you at the parade? Your hands once took
my own. Drums beat outside; I stand alone.
A pane of glass now deigns to slice our lives,
a sheer, sharp blade that keeps us from each other.
How happy I would be if I could touch
your skin that once would touch my own. My love
can’t wane, my love.
If I could steal a kiss....
The flowers you gave me are specks of dust:
Your lips were soft against my own, my hands
explored your pubic hair like love.
We would
explore ourselves in naked summer’s mirrors.
Your nails got stuck in hair that shook like leaves;
I see leaves shake outside my windowpane.
Are you at the parade? Your hands once took
my own. Drums beat outside; I stand alone.
A pane of glass now deigns to slice our lives,
a sheer, sharp blade that keeps us from each other.
How happy I would be if I could touch
your skin that once would touch my own. My love
can’t wane, my love.
If I could steal a kiss....
Walking The Dog
July 4, 2010:
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
ambulance lights' shimmering red reflections on my legs.
Ahead I see your hair: black silk overwhelming your shirt's red.
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
drawn to you like a dog, or a woman, black-satin-bound
to your bed. (Lilacs mingled with wisteria, on the nights
when black satin bound me to your bed.) Now I hold
the night in my palm, walking down West End.
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
ambulance lights' shimmering red reflections on my legs.
Ahead I see your hair: black silk overwhelming your shirt's red.
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
drawn to you like a dog, or a woman, black-satin-bound
to your bed. (Lilacs mingled with wisteria, on the nights
when black satin bound me to your bed.) Now I hold
the night in my palm, walking down West End.
Rocket Boy
You let me ride on your tail,
our leg-hairs grazing each other:
The scorched take-off seared my skin
like the mound of nails
you used to hang my picture on your wall.
The crescents of your half-closed eyes
were moons I kissed,
signs I searched for in the dark.
You promised me I’d see the sea,
but before the tide could rise
like the home-baked bread
whose crumbs once rolled
down our lips,
you turned off the oven.
I fiddle with the oven’s knob;
the glass door’s cool against my palm,
like an ocean I can only dream of
on moonless nights,
when wolves forget to howl
and I find myself far from your shore.
our leg-hairs grazing each other:
The scorched take-off seared my skin
like the mound of nails
you used to hang my picture on your wall.
The crescents of your half-closed eyes
were moons I kissed,
signs I searched for in the dark.
You promised me I’d see the sea,
but before the tide could rise
like the home-baked bread
whose crumbs once rolled
down our lips,
you turned off the oven.
I fiddle with the oven’s knob;
the glass door’s cool against my palm,
like an ocean I can only dream of
on moonless nights,
when wolves forget to howl
and I find myself far from your shore.
Conqueror (The Writing Lesson)
Your fingers were horses, and I was their chariot.
Wait! You are trying to describe love, not the Mongolian invasion.
What's the difference?
Ah, so we have a cynic in the class.
And we have a smirker as a professor.
You think I mock? On the contrary - in order to be a cynic, you need to know romance.
Bullshit.
Can we get back to the poem?
Are you going to give me crap about "the sublime art of writing"?
Only if you keep asking me questions.
It took Attila twenty years and army of well-trained warriors to conquer China. It took you five hours, and the surge of your lips against my thighs.
Wait! You are trying to describe love, not the Mongolian invasion.
What's the difference?
Ah, so we have a cynic in the class.
And we have a smirker as a professor.
You think I mock? On the contrary - in order to be a cynic, you need to know romance.
Bullshit.
Can we get back to the poem?
Are you going to give me crap about "the sublime art of writing"?
Only if you keep asking me questions.
It took Attila twenty years and army of well-trained warriors to conquer China. It took you five hours, and the surge of your lips against my thighs.
Bloody Oleanders (Minimalist Version)
Tonight your hands slither down the mountains of my breasts:
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral:
Will you cry, as my body sinks into a sexless bed?
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral:
Will you cry, as my body sinks into a sexless bed?
Bloody Oleanders
Tonight your hands slither down the mountains of my breasts.
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining,
as the brown threads of your hair weave a nest around my thighs.
The earth is lush as a fine wine,
tinted red like hennaed-hair - my hands
undulate into your softness,
mounds of hair beneath my fingers.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine,
as you dig into the mounds of my body.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral, as my body sinks into a sexless bed,
will you cry?
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining,
as the brown threads of your hair weave a nest around my thighs.
The earth is lush as a fine wine,
tinted red like hennaed-hair - my hands
undulate into your softness,
mounds of hair beneath my fingers.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine,
as you dig into the mounds of my body.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral, as my body sinks into a sexless bed,
will you cry?
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