oh how your quenching eyes still streak my watercolor skies

1.
a sculpture of melting ice
evokes the elegance
of your face

boldly
you rise from my inner canvas
like ancient architecture
rediscovered

2.
a flurry of tender brush-strokes
summons the beckoning lines
of your supple body

luxuriant fields of wildflowers
suddenly surround the walls
of my castle of thought

3.
as the trembling landscape
of the present crumbles

nostalgic rivulets of silver and jade
transport me to an island universe:

here all that remains
of the space-time continuum

is the sweet coo of your voice
and the cool crisp glow

of midnight snow

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my heart is a flame-dancer wandering along the distant riverside

1.
her feminine curves broadcast
ripe messages of conquest
and luxurious harmonics

delaying the reclamation
of the darkened silhouette
that haunts the boundaries
of my tattered cloak of isolation

2.
as stars gaze down into my eyes
the connections abound

light shines
in tremendously
tiny increments

the geometry suffocates
like the emaciated outline
of her sensual starlight smile
cleaved into the halted
black of night

3.
she presses a pair of hands against my ears
but cannot overturn the fevered chariot race
that rumbles past the dog-eared page corners
of my careening crypt of a heart

4.
as the fading singularity
of her whispering fingertips
lazily dwindles into the glacial stare of night:

I reach into the rings of Saturn to liberate
the boundless energy from a handful of matter

refilling our cup of wanting
until it overflows

until it overflows

If Only I Could Shield My Eyes From The Velvet Horizon

I.
When the flames of loneliness rise from your chest,
erupt from your heaving skin like an explosion of autumn leaves,
that is when the icicles of time stab spring whispers
into the gyrating center of your starving pupils,
which launch hungrily upwards towards
the unattainable depth of the haunting night sky.

Oh how your arms fold and unfold,
attaching and detaching your hands
from the throats of the enemies of sorrow:

for tonight is a clock tower without hands,
with you as the frozen centerpiece,
entombed in idle thoughts which parade wickedly
across the graying spectrum of your billowing imagination.

II.
Enslaved to the demon of biology,
dragged down into the hurting pools of desire,
this heart bathes like a newborn in a gasoline-fed fire.

Full lips that kill.
Bright eyes that cannot fill.

Full lips that kill.
Bright eyes that cannot fill.

I break promises here under the night sky,
here in the underbelly of the universe,
I let it all go,
and begin to care for no one.

III.
This being,
this vessel of twisting desire,
is a brittle sailboat hurled by the winds of temptation,
destined to crash again and again
against the crunching rocks of despair.

Hydrogen,
with its conquest of the stars,
with its primacy in the scheme of the universe,
trembles in my eyes,
quenches fiery oxygen
to become a teardrop,
undescended.

This is a tower of life,
these are the stained-glass scars;

her eyes are the hammers
that bring this edifice crumbling down,
crumbling down.

IV.
And whenever I awake,
the tendrils of future despair reignite,
for I am whole,
I am whole again,
a vibrant Sisyphus heart-bound
to mountainous boulders of desire,
destined to yearn for welcoming eyes and skin,
which would hold us together
like the bonds between stable elements,
if only you weren’t a mirage in the shape of a woman,
shimmering so beautifully,
yet so cruelly,
tantalizing my spiraling heart with ephemeral promises
that flutter and disperse like a flock of birds,
leaving only a cloudy arrow of tender nothingness
which soars softly into the misty geometry of oblivion.

It Is Only On The Doorstep Of Introspection That We Find Our True Selves

Sifting mindlessly through
the emotional wreckage of her heart,
the girl with the stark, haunted eyes,
turns her soul’s cannon loose,
from its desiccated mooring.

She fires volley
after volley
into the obsidian night sky,
the fear of betrayal
dancing like water
dropped from a great height.

In time the waking dream subsides,
her glasses come off as she rubs
her tired eyes, bound for
the dresser drawer, they make
a noise not dissimilar to the
clunk-clank of her neglected heart as it yanks
at the thick chains that
surround its murky crimson epicenter.

This Is The Silence That Strikes As A Dagger Falls

I.

Upon awakening

my skull feels clustered

with the deadwood

of dreams.

 

Raising a lightning-soaked hand

to my eyes I am suddenly buried

by the approaching rumble

of a swaggering summer storm.

 

Stepping outside

into the midnight mist

the trees look like logs

carved from clouds

of interstellar gas.

 

Gazing upwards into

the blurred atmosphere

my star-drunk thoughts gallop

through the expansive and opaque landscape

as my legs shiver and contract

as if yearning to outrun

the turbulent shell of sky

that encircles us all.

 

In the frenzied flutter

poignant flashes of thunderclouds

tilt the stained-glass revolver of my mind upwards

to marvel at the melting moonstone above

which looks so bioluminescent,

like a thousand year old Honey Fungus

leaping the eight light seconds of distance

by sliding down the ubiquitous root system

of expanding space-time.

 

II.

As my cheeks overflow

with tears from the sky

I pierce the livid sapphire ceiling

with the pain from my eyes,

recalling how we once huddled together

in the explosive arms of night,

unafraid to bask in the eternal swerve and sway;

content to marry our wounds to the phase-shifting sky

as we attempted to untangle evolution’s straitjacket of consciousness,

one thread of free will at a time.

 

It was then that an asteroid field of gray light crashed into our eyes,

injecting our mirrored gaze with such tender momentum

that soon we ripped into the heaving skies like a pair of wiry hands,

slowly unfurling an underlying layer of painted canvas

that resplendently filled us with the irrepressible buoyancy

of a blazing dawn sky.

 

III.

As time stumbled to a halt,

the fabric of the cosmos

became gilded into the handle

of us.

 

Your imprints

drained in oily whirls

into my emotional center.

 

And into the porous medium

of your receptive mouth

 

I planted an orchard

of fruiting desire.

Together We Suck The Poison From Our Wounds And Spit It Into The Sky

I. These Heartbeats Are Made Of Bark And Tears

 

Here inside

the carbon-stained

cliffs of my aching mind

the bustling time-spiders

inject their venom of oozing seconds

and shape-shifting moments

into my Rorschach consciousness.

 

(There is a healing whisper

forming on the lips of the wind.)

 

Blood like paint converges

from the battling hemispheres of my brain

to rain down from my eyes

like a syrup of agony that forms

a flailing field of rainbow droplets

which splatter against the fluxing fault lines

of my tectonic heart.

 

(There is a healing whisper

forming on the lips of the wind.)

 

II. This Love Is A Tourniquet

 

We ascend like angels

across aged castle steps,

spiraling away from the dungeon-like emanations

that arise from the dead and defeated pupils

of the bastard children of time.

 

Like the prismatic eyes

of the floating dragonfly

I capture all the stages of your ascent

from innocent to carnal,

playful to maudlin,

frightened to blissfully content.

 

And now,

as the wind delicately tramples

the moist corners of our trembling lips

we drift towards the water’s edge

to reclaim the calming language

of swirling leaves as our own.

 

As we speak in forest tongue

each syllable softens our anxious faces

until they suddenly split like a waterfall

to reveal our hidden flames of longing:

 

with bare feet and exposed hearts

we begin to fire-walk over the tendrils of creation.

 

III. A Thirst That Cannot Be Quenched

 

As love forms from the smoky fruit

of our smoldering body-friction

we dissolve into each other’s arms,

slipping one molecule at a time

past the palatial sieve of time’s icy fingers.

 

As we disappear into

moments yet-to-be

each future possibility

sends us stumbling

toward the haunting reflections of our eyes

which gently meander down the distant waterway

like faintly flickering paper lanterns,

whose delicate murmur is:

 

always homeward bound.

As Our Thought-Gardens Bloom, Jupiter Opens Another Of Her Stormy Eyes

I. Sometimes I Awake With Weeping Eyes Of Jade

 

There in the brooding darkness

pitch-dark lacerations appear in twisted streaks

against the mirror of my spine.

 

The tangled knapsack that hides

this hideous soul-carnage tumbles open

and the mirage of self dissolves:

as my fingers begin to puddle in circular rings,

the watery vibrations of this asteroid-filled symphony

crescendo into a wall of bitter violins,

ripe with the tender heat of resignation.

 

II. Whittling The Worn Wood Floor With Another Wandering Footstep

 

Stalking past the reaper’s molasses trap of gurgling regret

a haunting face appears and disappears in the black lava

like a million-year-old leaf,

unearthed and instantly oxidized

by the quicksilver rays of the morning sun.

 

Yet still I lift the veil,

still I lift the veil

just to feel the fleeting outline

of a human face bathed in obsidian,

drowned in the slow-cooked crude of consciousness.

 

Muddle,

muddle through

the eye of the needle

once more.

 

III. Here In The Trenches I Await The Killing Ether

 

Corpse rage clouds my eyes.

 

Icy thought-daggers hover relentlessly above,

coating this diamond sphere

with the spiked gravestones of indignation,

the only ammunition I need.

 

Calm as angel’s breath

I aim squarely at the cosmos

and ease the trigger back.

 

From atop this splintered life-boat,

set adrift on a sea of uncertainty,

a shot rings out into the void.

 

Calm as angel’s breath

I aim squarely at the cosmos

and ease the trigger back.

 

In the quiet corners of quantified time

silence sheds like the rattlesnake’s skin:

the outer shield has been left,

but the raucous chorus still remains.

 

The outer shield has been shed,

but the raucous chorus still remains.

 

IV. The Noose Of Particles That Surrounds Our Minds

 

Physics,

that vicious mistress,

is both the waterfall’s end

and the river’s icy-mountain beginning.

 

Even the wildest gyration of a poet’s arrow,

launched haphazardly towards a simile-strewn heart,

is descended from her bountiful waters.

 

Wielding the icy blade

of forgiveness with flaming palms

renders resolution impossible.

 

V. Wring Me Out In Waves Of Hate

 

This skull juice

is the ultimate poison;

let it coat the throat of this universe

with noxious dark matter.

 

My heart,

forged from the unfathomable cauldron of time,

is shaped like a trillion question marks.

 

My mind,

reassembled from a swarthy jet of star radiation,

is a prismatic lodestone sword:

with unforgiving effervescence,

it glimmers in the chill of the night.

 

VI. Pruned From The Trees To See The Skylight Surrounded By Black

 

Sometimes I shred

the obscuring clothes of humanity

just to beat the rocks like the primate I am.

 

I vocalize,

a furious four-limbed sculpture of carbon

shouting from inside the atmosphere’s skin.

 

The formula is cruelly diaphanous:

god is a zero,

a placeholder denoting

all that is vast,

all that confounds

a single pair of trembling hands.

 

Yet,

there in the half-light

we surf upon the cold wind stream,

propelled by the flamboyant warmth

of our jackknifed hearts.

 

VII. Flourishing In The Quiescent Light Of A Soaring Moonlit Night

 

Sometimes we yearn to un-know,

to return to the elaborate facades

that cloud the skyline of ideas.

 

But this razor-vision,

swiped from Occam’s lips,

it reaches into absolute zero

and pulls out a steel heart

brimming with elapsed regret.

 

So I vocalize,

a furious four-limbed sculpture of carbon

shouting from inside the atmosphere’s skin.

 

I call out for a sentient star:

a giant machine like us,

born into majestic isolation.

 

Together,

we are atomic siblings

bathing in the flamboyant warmth

of our jackknifed hearts.

 

VIII. And Sisyphus Wept Intergalactic Tears

 

Sometimes a galaxy is a speck

caught in the eye of a supple colossus,

a Herculean statue of light,

littered with the fruit of self doubt.

 

Yet the size of its mind-terror mirrors our own,

and eventually we must reunite

in the brotherhood of blood:

cracking rock after rock after rock

against the slavemaster’s chains.