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“Nightingale and Roses”

the heart burst open
like a canary cracks open its cage with a song
listening to the nightingale with roses
flying like a throatful soul escaping 
from somewhere deep within,
soaring out the cavern measureless to man,
that loaded chamber made of bone and skin,
to perch itself for a time upon your velvet tongue,
the notes escape now from the sleepy pillows of your lips,
each word whispered invisible, pointless and unkissed
a somersaulting orb slides out, and more follow, unheard,
like beads for feeling around the waste strung in a Babel prayer,  
they are as such lifting effervescence like silver Pérignon 
cool and crisply unpacked, the sour with the sweet, 
addictive tort tarts, they pop and spread, an award of damages 
into the ether region to tickle the base of it all, for here is a well-known frontier -
the judgeless review their unforgiving judges – peers do not appear;
words like lemures glide, they never fall - 
spirited words summoned, without fail, 
always move effortlessly 
through resistant walls;

first rung, the Oropharynx ,
as if it wants to speak -
and still, I breathe you in 
like a rare intelligent possession, 
tripping along the crushed ultra violets, 
those twee lavender sentences paler in comparison, yet
sacrosanct to poet monks, remain unblessed and wafer thin, 
the moist story as deep as an Ocean, salty scented sensated lifting 
mounting the moments we ride timeless
hard into the dark night crystal winged 
unlost upon the fragmented Heraclitean;
lips bestride such a beautiful tortured secret -
I touch your sword with mine, 
as if to speak another language, by tongue, 
your book is marked and turning spoke, the cogs now move,
a key transferred, through that searing ephemeral kiss,
a contracted eternal assurance, your doorway opens,
unlocking the folly that does keep it, 
the thing inside, that like Lazarus, 
does not sleepeth; Morpheus
unstill, I breathe you back in

I heard your poetic soul calling;
singing its way through my blindness,
I felt it, I vowed to keep it -
its hidden frescoes,
the deep burgundy insides of the story,
the external walls of you brush-stroked pastel - 
a solid contradiction -
like an abstract expressionist painting
pointillistic, byzantine;

I did not read it, transient,
I melted through its ceiling.

Il Duomo di Dio; 
pointillistic

such are God 
and their demons

like Ovid’s Fasti
exiled, uncompleted



Candide Diderot. ‘25 




“How can you hide from what never goes away?”
Heraclitus 

“A wound from a tongue is worse than a wound from a sword:
for the latter affects only the body, the former the spirit.”
Pythagoras

"A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. His auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician."
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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