About a poet who never writes a thing

I

I am a man of no dispersion
suffering in the hurting hole,
dug deep, from which one
doesn’t wish to return

and so piles the soil
back over his body, blotting out le soleil,
but buries a dormant seed. I draw, my duvet
over my face, and fatally away from toil.

I’d wish to pirouette,
for my burn to spur me,
and send off radiance
from my vibrant centrifuge self

but I’ve been spurned and whirl
within the world erected
around you, monumentally,
Lo, like one of Poe’s entombed girls.

My frail and vile verse
“come back to me”
offends those men of worth
who have loved poetry.

“Man is weak; God sleeps
and heaven is high:
One fiery-coloured moment:
one great love; and lo! We die."

My sex stirs but one fetid thought,
that of falling to a fit of tears
as I watch you talk the ticklish subject
while my mind wanders to your tortuous, ticklish spots.

II

I am a man without a hope
to wake up and leave sleep thoughtlessly,
accept the mock sun of these days
and clear from clouds of dark dream smoke.

So they proceed in a haze,
labyrinthine. Though I’m not surprised,
not amazed, just lost in and struck
by the lusterless hint of lust in your gaze.

I’d wish to sail and forget.
For yearn to spare me
and send me off gracefully
from my moaning mooring amour, yet

my skewed heart is unanswerable.
I wither; wan palour, pansies in hands,
vain love poems and swan wings, singing
of Pan’s nymphs who poison Gabriels.


My life is sickening ugly
and bare. You took precious time,
the three years I thrived,
and then took the ardor the adorned me.

You never could or never cared
enough to ever prove
your right and rare love
to the most righteous man who dared.

Flora In Memoriam

The wind at our face was against us
and the arms we would brace were aside.
The breeze swept, wept and sighed,
for our room was emptied of roses.

This last stroll we took was saintless;
a death march of her wits and my pride.
I descanted my doom, you and I.
Love weathered by art had erased us.

I was Petrarch with laurels and loss.
Moss wreathes raked by the tide,
fettered and fringed, they swept by
and our time had been passed by what raced us.

I was Job with a fortune of daughters
some Jah had divinely unproved.
I, upright and blameless, refused
to be punished for devotion and falter

In my love for the heavens that brought her.
I held too tight with hands we entwined,
she had palms for the wind to defile.
So I wandered on, I had at last lost her.

I was parched and my decanter of water
sweat dew drops, they ran down the side.
Cannot dote; not the place, nor cry.
My wet words were, to her, bath water.

So where may I wash up, you sage,
Or wash out my language of love?
If your hardness of heart must be moved,
I’ll filter it fine through a filthy page.

Ladybug Ballad

Hear me marvel in my mirth;
I sat amidst the scent of books
And seeing some magic of research
I had my sense of wonder shook.

Two volumes from vast shelves I took
Both blue, large Lepidopteron tombs.
Oh clever me, to have a look:
a sad hope that my verse improves.

I saw, sat in this lilac room,
Crawl amongst the livre’s leaves
A ladybug content with plume
Of pale pastels and jacket sleeves.

Or injured with disabled dreams
Of flying from the factoid fold,
Just crawling through the scrawl. I gleaned
How words will ask one to behold

Gleaming life in braille so bold
To prick a finger, stung or bit.
Such simple joy books are to hold,
that even larvae love what's writ.

Untitled Sonnet

Enchanting glimpse, her nakedness, once more,
Euphoria. To explore her new form at leisure
Inflames my bliss; a blistered bleary ardor.
The pastel pink edged lips that spoke first plaisir,
The gold suffused curves, touched with tremor,
I know by blind touching a remembrance weir
Of desultory dreams, feverous yet demure
In desire abated by a sad sedative year
Of dreary idle organ atrophy fear.
Unkindly relinquished and rekindled to fire and smoke
I drag my face to dry my final tears,
To lie upon the crag of her chest’s slope.
Hands knead breasts, hearts need rest for mountaineers.
My white knuckles blush as I caress
The summit of worn love in finer dress.

/um/

With aplomb, her green eyes
imbibe wonder while
her brilliant life resumes

on the screen behind
my chrysalis eyes:
those reverie cocoons.

I lovingly anatomize
our apartment,
a recovered tomb:

Fire escape coffee,
oranges and ash trays comprise
my Proustian perfume

for drawn curtain sex,
red exit-sign
and love-illusion illumined;

Perspiration paces
from our sofa, naked,
to our cigarette smoke bedroom;

Books laid on marble,
Black lace bras, her auburn hair
and freckled flesh festoons

white wood floors
and walls, bare but for
what may be exhumed;

Her sumptuous name
on scattered papers,
off whisper-lips, issues

two syllables
of symmetry,
its divine spelling assumed.

My metonymic muscle
touches palate twice:
a gliding tongue consumed

by my vowel drawn,
smoke-ring mouth
rhyming Ulalume.

Cunnilinguistics

Overtures
to silent pleasure
yearning lingual urges.

Fille en fleur,
flume doused fire:
the profuse sudden surge.

Colonnades,
a sacred place,
relief of torrent rapture.

Clitoris
of pistil beauty
and spring rain dampened after.

Lambent lips
reposing over
her stomach’s lily languor.

Cheek bone on hip:
vellus hairs
and eye lashes are dancers.

Though the sighs
of other lovers,
lust heaving in their chests,

seashell thighs
clasped firm around
a cove of ocean breath,

reach animated
exclamations,
it’s sandy cinema sex,

sans spray,
and I mourn
the way her waves

arrested my rhythm.

Bedroom Ballet Flames

The poetry pages I have sniffed.
The perfumed bliss of Flora
hymning natural philosophy
and dancing bedroom ballet flames with me.

She obliterates the monolith;
my obdurate monument to ardor undone.
I appeal with a strident, pitiable tongue
and her mouth becomes sadness

“Are you going to disappear?”

She watches my life expire
with the discomfiture of a musician
holding discord in her hands.
My swan song singer
pressing cacophonous me beneath her fingers.

She of my desire
excitedly betrayed
with Jadeite, smoldering and millennial-made,
through whose green
slow-dances wild orchard fires.

“What feature of mine do you like best?”

Everything recapitulatory.
The replica freckle above your right breast,
the areole landscape of ebbing lip-pinks,
the vertiginous heat of your pallid-sands skin
and the roseate negatives where my fingers dug in.

Impassioned a priori.
My lust and kissing you everywhere owing
to a simulacral spinal-chord response
to a familiar phrase our bodies are bowing.
Shadowy sex and atavistic amore.