Spell

Upon slopes tones breathing fine
Seated among gentle greens
Folded to eyes as shut
Stars and planets bound trust
Here into darkness immaculate blend
Screams in furious echoes
And beats shine thorough
Ambience of unbroken crimson haze
Balancing figures as they surround
Fire somewhere
Dance then always lost in your gaze
Certain things rare turbulence shape
Holding light flutter to indigo sky
There from sudden butterfly
Severe scented perfume high
Forgotten then into an ace of dreams
Fifty five and twenty nine
Superior touch to seasons’ hold
All joys in lazy afternoons
Fading always deeper into background
Crazes that had once storms scold
What kind of cast this I carry
Come over again and set me free…

***

 

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Cult

 

clan

 

Insurgent this flow together
Among chores in men suppressed
Moving in words often bless
Photographs in memory confess…

Stand before you naked
When I met you
Rising forms to endless hues
A clan among the warriors
This rage shall shake
Dances in every groove
Neck seeded her display
Merchant doubt in convey
To lips mine in a gaze
How much shall it take?
Tea rose on perfect perfume
Nose to her neck inhale
Wine and secrecy of wild
Master one to others seated
Upward upon her thigh
Rowing mystery past prelude
Devouring bodies in time
Circles to spiral a fiery notion
Creation in womb the warrior resumes
Sleeping jinxed to a world heated
Born virgin into the way conclude
Riches and glory always escape
Her arms forever encase
Our children in cosmic dust
Merciless consume.

Let me see you undress
On blue bird you can flame
This morning cigarette blame
Heart’s safe in primal cage
What truth can be?
Art finds the tribe
And the clan renewed
Proud she stands
Sooth her eyes
To fuming Medusa recall
A bleeding knight of eyes
To head amongst champions
Ingress bound he stood
Cobblestones to galaxy
Of muses certain
This night of knights.

***

 

 

 

 

Echo

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Before another century today fades
Temptations could seek revenge
Blindly demanding, most assessed
Undress figures gentle as such
Easing mothers that caress
The son another home.

Thereupon a muse in calming air
Channeled pieces of fresh despair.
Quite moving the thrust
A reason that must trust
Spirits in miscalculated words
To impressions of brotherly decay.
Renewed in thoughtless smoke
The red escape must together shake
Contemplations in united conspiracy
For bloody pulses nerves age
Each man a war, comforted in self affliction
Towers to a task of heavenly completion.

Nights sleep, hollows confronted
Mine to which an order departed
As such the pillow perfumed
Embraced, and yes dream bedded.

Paradoxically a poet was so named
Luxury to that a namesake
Sloshed forms and yearnings endless
What then must otherwise take?
In words we live,
Of words we die,
Simple fever, the midnight cry
Lone to falter steps encased
Steamy rivers, elusive rains
In this chamber once again.

Then, as you had believed,
From foul pastures of slimy green
Echo wanderers somewhat weary
Muddle and muddle, captivated odyssey
Learnings and championing secrecy
The brighter images of day’s lechery.

But lost are we, forever contemplating
Chasing notions beyond yonder mountains
That speak our tongues to greet afresh.
Mirror every wall, I talk to them
And art the forlorn promise
Has never conspired,
Indignation to hyperventilation
All behind the veil uncertain…

***

In notes, miscalculated I read…

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Persistence of a bird in sky,

To a place they call high,

Laden with malicious rays,

Remind me of those silver days…

On the roads, when I set sail,

Unbecoming itself the mighty fail,

Hither to me a spent other,

Serpent of a warm heavenly smother…

How I chanced the heaven’s greed,

In  notes, miscalculated I read,

Steps of distress, justified in sorrow,

More than a finger, my borrow!

Of old, distress and melancholy, the call,

In a world, a spider’s maze I fall,

Dreams as cloudy as smoke,

In sleeps help me choke…

What in a piece of shade,

When existence my only raid?

Slipping away, I can hold no more,

Forever, a beloved drape, apart tore…

***

The Diary of a dead artist

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The Diary of a dead artist,

moulded of a cunning fist.

Lying on a sacred high,

Recite, the folly creation die!

Solace in woods alone,

crafts of distant clouds,

of sunsets, of dawns, this tale,

Residue or broken designs…

Humbly I hold thee,

a psalm, any a rejoice,

Inevitable, as the forsaken fruit,

Eyeing the waters, it delivered…

A woman, robed of dark,

The golden glare of thirst,

a dream in making,

Unnerving him, a conceit!

Decipher, the legends not,

For sagas are dear,

the artist of name,

in his dairy, his fame!

Women, every now and then,

Like shores in a stormy sea,

to where I ship?

Anchor here, and stay…

Slipping off a mind, immense,

some here, too real,

Spoken too little of,

Illusions of the past…

The diary, burns still,

The artist, no longer a shadow,

Lying on a sacred high,

Recite, the folly creation die…

***