The doors of my heart lay open:
Its atrium bleeds a woman,
For she’s an attractive dame –
"Some places are pitch black"
Deserted by other children
The darkened playroom confronts The Kid
"I must be supervised"
By which he means
Protected from the powers of darkness
The would-be supervisor
In turn is confronted
With tight tunnels and tiny staircases
And an accumulated coating
Of kiddy grime
Which doesn't bother the Kid.
He is unamused by pulling of scary faces
From within the labyrinth's cramped atrium
But instead requires illumination for his explorings
From a torch he has handy.
Disappointed that he must proceed alone
For reasons of size and stature
Exhorting "Try! Try!"
Yet he goes bravely forward.
Crawling through intestinal convolutions
Lit up as much as possible by the torchlight
Up into the high reaches of the system
Sliding finally down a long tube and out
Through a slippery exit passage
This is a prototype
Of a non-living carnivore
With which we can peacefully coexist
Relatively unscathed
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
The day you passed
Empty is my heart, full is my mind: filled with what ifs the Shoulda Woulda could have been. Cold nights now, no longer enthralled by your raw essence saltiness after shave and metal. Just thinking of it sends Shivers up my spine, and drives me mental.
The shenanigans twinkling in your eye, the shape of your lip as it traces on my thigh the touch of your hand caressing my shape and back up again.
Sensing your breath upon my neck, callused but soft are your hands, as a mere whimper escapes my mouth.
Now all I see is your death and not your member or our sex.
Your pecs Where it connects to your chest the place I would lay my head and rest there’ your gunshot wound.
In that spot as I lay listening to the pounding feeling you throbbing harder.
Now thoughts of unpleasant thoughts, atrium cardias to rigamortis spooning on me in our bed.
Nighta full of Terror and torture I'm now a mourners with PTSD and anxiety disorder.
Take a piece of my oversized pumping heart
Make aortic memories, oh so grand
Break not this adoring atrium to start
Quake from the rhythmic beat under your hand
Gain affection from each side ventricle
Plain adoration felt by thick blood flowing
Vein flutters, valves and arteries a-tickle
Rein it in, your romantic side is showing
Saints, gargoyles, Kings, and imps,
mix, match and mingle.
The beatific and the ogres
hang over slate roofs
like drunks at closing-time.
The stone-masons were subversives,
they must have drank on the job,
yet Remigius de Fécamp, Bishop Alexander,
and St Hugh of Lincoln
all signed off on this unholy riot.
Fire and earthquakes only encouraged
more irreverent flamboyancy.
Gradually `Mary Mother' took over the house
sweeping granite spiders out of the atrium,
boxing the ears of errant goblins,
yet much medieval and Gothic dangle remain.
The effrontery of it all,
all those capricious aberrations,
lead us to believe, not so much in God,
but the sheer immensity of our
rebellious and disorderly minds.
grandma's last night
sky bleeds in black
in the atrium
a dappled moonlight
weeps with me
Saints, gargoyles, Kings and imps,
mix, match and mingle.
The beatific and the ogres
hang over slate roofs
like drunks at closing-time.
The stone-masons were subversives,
they must have drunk on the job,
yet Remigius de Fécamp, Bishop Alexander,
and St Hugh of Lincoln
all signed off on this unholy riot.
Fire and earthquakes only encouraged
more irreverent flamboyancy.
Gradually `Mary Mother' took over the house
sweeping granite spiders out of the atrium,
boxing the ears of errant goblins,
yet much medieval and Gothic dangle remain.
The sheer effrontery of it all,
all those capricious aberrations,
lead us to believe, not so much in God,
but the immensity of our
rebellious and disorderly minds.
bassoons & oboes
they rehearsed in the atrium
to the on lookers delight
the sounds of the oboes were soothing
they were like the sun setting into night
the chefs were amazing
and the sounds of the bands,
I asked my lover for favor
I was brave and took the chance!
6 pork tongues
1& 1/4 cup of cocnac
1 gallon of grape juice
2 cups of pomegranate juice
1/4 cup of minced garlic
2 cup of chopped onions
1 cup of green bell pepper
1/4 cup of gingerroot minced
1 cup of soy sauce
1 tablespoon of turmeric
3 tablespoons of cayenne pepper
cook for two to three hours until tongues are done and tender
drain broth/stock: remove excess fat
measure 5 cups
add 3 1/2 cups of rice
cook rice until done...
add..
2 cups of crabmeat
2 cups of yogurt
1/2 cup of minced green onion
2 cups of asparagus
1 cup of parmesan cheese
3 crushed garlic cloves,
warm over heat until cheese melts
a little love some thymes goes a long whey!
Inebriant is affection
when hearts to hearts are hot
and pangs can cut the tendering
Effects not short of alcohol !
Come to my heart - take it slow
One atrium at a time
The right - when at first sight
The left - when attractions grow
Ventricles are the portico
Emotion at the door !
In cadence debuts the lifeblood
That solicitous ore !
That synonym - the saviour -
the kindred in kind -
like life and death -co-exist
How much like brethren they are
Live and blood steep in vermillion
How vital they are !
Then one and then the other
One distills - the other gurgles on.
Black panther
Striped tiger;
Stray cats challenge
~~~~~~~~~
Takeaway meal
Fast food dinner;
Family feast
~~~~~~~~~
Street bazaar
New offerings greet;
Dazzling array
~~~~~~~~~
Crowded mall
Strangers congregate;
Celebrities entertain
~~~~~~~~~
Busy walkway crowd
Strange faces meet;
Loneliness loiters
~~~~~~~~~
Tired old couple
Sun drenched faces;
Hair greying with late bus
~~~~~~~~~
Child care centre
Noisy kids mingling;
Care-giver disciplines
~~~~~~~~~
Hotel atrium
Tourist traffic brisk;
Coming and going
~~~~~~~~~
Supermarket shelves
Global brands assemble;
Mini United Nations
~~~~~~~~~
Morning kung-fu
Martial arts dance;
Healthy self-defense
~~~~~~~~~
Mirror image peeps
Self-realization stare;
Grey hair and wrinkles
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
31 August 2014
Singapore
This
Ornate
Fine silver
Gathering dust.
Hands splayed, overlaid
With golden promises
Caught in persuading rings.
Blood diamond among crystals,
Unsullied with obligations and
Laying in your four chambered treasure chest
Tumor
Growth in the heart
Right atrium chamber
Compressing tricuspid's valve flap
Scary
Another layer of lavender scented lotion
Rubbed in vehement laughter
A quelling of sadness
Covered up in mascara insanity
Livid strokes of feathered paintbrushes
Hoping to see the big picture
She cried like oil paintings without a purpose.
A treasure hunter searching for rubbery remedies
Without heart’s sanctified atrium
To light the way
She bled from carnivorous pores
Bites against feeding palms
Struggling licks upon pacifier wounds
Mouth
Shut
Stone’s lonely lyric
Thrown against fragile lighthouses
Beaming through unacceptable horizons
Investigation of deity’s hidden agenda,
She questions validation’s esophagus
Its vocal chords
Torn
Another squeeze from lavender bottle
Empty
Its exhales shedding infantile whisper
…
A bounced reality check
Declaring that it wasn’t a disease
That afflicted her bones
©Drake J. Eszes
How long did it take her to be free?
How long did it take
For the wingless dragonfly to finally open her heart to the world
How long did it take for her to overcome Devil’s workshop
Slowly caressing her retinas
With silky daffodils and two-faced tulips
Where
Now
She dives into a glistening pool of complicated risk
Opening her atrium to the masses
Shedding incumbent teardrops
Just for that one standing ovation
To SET
HER
FREE!
It was then
Where pieces of plastic chains fell from demure stratosphere
Dented taps, similar to a shoeless dancer,
Setting off bass tones and low-key monotony
For she was
One cholesterol filled syllable short
To be genuine
One tearful, hyphenated lyric
Too blunt
To be embraced by their “god”
One dilapidated vowel shy
Of being honest
Her diary didn’t have enough pages torn
From emerald sanity
There were too many “Wows”,
Diluting into disingenuous shoulder pats
Her stanza pushed aside
A glorified booty call with no call back number
Leaving messages towards empty dial tones
…
How long will it take her to be free?
Until she looks up
Knowing she already holds the key
©Drake J. Eszes
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