Betwixt twilight, in hypnotic trance
Lapping waters compose sensual dance
Lovelorn sap pines in vain
Downtrodden, return nary ordain
Neon allure gleaming down
Gifting halo upon petal crown
How cruel tis luster on display
Beauty, aware most risqué
Briny tears remain unshed
Tender words gone unsaid
Sunrise blushes skies
Dispelling unrequited ties
Sunkist upon petals smutch
Balm, like healing touch
Bask ‘neath celestial shine
Wispy swells, thou art divine
I wonder after his black spectacles,
if I could recognize his phantom's scare
by his bandy left foot, something he'd wear:
constrictor turtlenecks, cowboy buckles
his trials decided by flayed knuckles
his tombstone eyes, the depth of night they bear.
I wonder at the factors of his fear
as I adorn him with cherry jewels.
Your bass breathes, haply, the contents of love;
it whispers to me my shadows' secrets,
but dark articles ingesting your name,
face-eating barnacles that smutch our flame.
I'll be glad —a pigeon may be a dove—
to sprinkle Shakespeare over your Poe's grunts.
WHAT IS LOVE?
What's love without a hot romantic rage,
Warm hugs and mouth to mouth sweet kiss. Some plead
Platonic love as love. It's like a mirage
In which you feign to quaff some holy Mead.
That sizzling feel of love lies in the touch
Of skin with skin; in melding sweat with sweat,
In rush of blood from toes to head and smutch
Of saliva slimy making bodies wet.
Your bodies shiver with great ecstasy
When reaches love its peaks, tears dribble down
With joy and vapours raise between hot he
And sexy she. In mirth of love they drown.
What more to expect in this life and try
When bodies your can reach the heaven high.
Girl wearing lavender brought us carrots at the hutch.
We were appreciative, liked these orange things very much.
Stay and have some with us, suggested my cousin, Dutch.
Sorry, she said. I have to go get a car with a clutch.
Aren’t those old-fashioned? Asked my uncle Smutch.
Yes, but I like antiques, said the girl, I have an old-person’s touch.
Dutch thought it was funny, and laughed, and Smutch yelled “Dutch!”
He did not want the feelings hurt of girl who brought us carrots at the hutch.
I used to imagine that the body
was a sort of fleshy gospel, bound together
by mind and ligaments.
Years of smutch, and oily reduction,
daily, a thin scum to be skimmed -
a process of dross elimination,
but each year there is a teaspoonful of loss
that cannot be explained, made up or accounted for,
more a lessoning and not an alchemy.
If this kind of culinary reduction
keeps losing the fat of me
I will be as nothing,
and maybe that’s the point.
evidence shreds itself
in half-remembered candle glow
old photographs never taken
keep the clearest images
what fails to occur
changes
learns to walk
swim or fly
that which never was
becomes a shadow life
a memory in the smutch
of a guttering flame
yet
forever real
Spirit and flesh have been boiling together.
Years of smutch, and oily reduction,
and each day a thin scum to be skimmed.
A job for a Chef de Cuisine,
a kitchen phantom
who though never seen, has been
keeping the suspension from separating,
the pot from thickening too much
with a pinch of this and that.
I used to imagine that the flesh
was a sort of gospel, bound strongly together
by mind and ligaments,
but each year there is a teaspoonful of loss
that cannot be made up or accounted for.
Evidence shreds itself
in half-remembered candle glow.
Old photographs never taken
keep the clearest images.
What fails to occur, changes,
learns to walk and swim in time.
What is left frays and unwinds
in a fog of happenstance.
Such things are ghosts
in a jigsaw of light,
smutch in a guttering flame,
as clear now as then.
Hate,
Separating the offence from the person
6-14-2016
Hate is not something that we bring into life,
But it cuts others deeply as a finely honed knife.
Where does hate fall in your life’s Spectrum,
Sometimes’ it’s veiled as thinly as a plectrum,
It touches each soul somewhere along the way,
And is exposed by our look or something we say.
Hate must be separated, offence from the person,
When we tolerate hate it festers and will worsen.
What color is hate, can you hear it, or touch?
When disparaging others, reputations, we smutch.
A skin color, a lifestyle, or divergent persuasions,
From heart it flows freely not only on occasions.
Our hate for one another divides all worldly nations,
Forgetting that we’re each, one of God’s creations;
Your eyes bore into mine,
Set them on fire,
And now I'm blind.
Your soul hit first light,
It cast away shadows of the night.
Hands touch,
Exchanging smiles,
We smutch the rope
On the candle recoil.
Melting heart blaze
Going to and fro in haze.
Our world ignite,
Crackling sounds service,
and I cannot be more amazed.
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