love was never an abstraction
could not be laid to rest
for love was never born
but forgotten by the morn
or soured and stuffed with scorn
so don’t be shy of your inaction
do not cry for what is lost
for love is just around the corner
behind the curtain
in the dresser drawer
to be found, but not reborn
two pools of mud
i slip into forever
a gondolier’s paddle
on the surface
as if I had forgotten
to salt the spaghetti
or boldly snapped the strands
them slide gracefully
into the simmering water
slow-dancing in the pot
i bite myself
because i miss being bitten,
i’m no longer smitten
and this begs the question
how can i let anyone else in?
these scratches on my back
and craters on my psyche
are an elaborate ruse
i was taught
to not take things lightly,
the differences between us
are quantified in light-years,
time spent alone is just drifting,
frankly, it’s frightening
but i force it sometimes.
i don’t have the nerve
to give into this urge,
infinite angels surround me.
i feel blessed by their presence.
i can’t cause them pain.
to sunshine tickling the flora,
the oaks and the pines
manifesting an aura,
the chills down your spine
run rapid like bobsleds,
in a race to the finish-
line up and be placed
on society’s conveyor belt
or see through the hoax,
our vision was tunneled,
our best efforts coaxed,
the focus on what’s next,
steals soul from the moment,
pilfered and pawned off
to a future that only
exists in idealist mind-flurries and fawning
at the hope one can own it.
lay still now and ponder
wonder and awe –
lay still now shapeless until the dawn,
through razor sharp bone-rattling winters –
lay still now until you feel fit to
we stayed too long,
missed the last tram home,
and giggled like a clan
of drunken hyenas:
it was all part of a plan,
we just couldn’t see it.
darling do you realise,
the mist that swirls inside your eyes?
in the evening time, stretched wide to house the moon,
you grin and check my vital signs,
then trace the course of my palm-lines,
etched paths twist and turn, converge, and all return to you,
was it the tracing of your finger?
at certain times you seem to linger,
longer in my mind's eye than the credit you've been due,
was it the moss upon my stone?
the present you so clearly own,
the dye that had been cast is past"
a fresh pair of dice to roll.
our time upon this earth is short,
our future is an afterthought,
i'm stuck with pins; it must be your voodoo,
and your black magic gypsy hex,
tickling the nape of my neck,
honored hairs all arise, standing to salute,
your holy gaze and aureole,
never caught you in this light before,
you’re fixing up, I know you’re bound to shoot,
but for now we’ll just recline,
on this sofa outside space and time,
and bask serene in low-lights beaming down the avenue.
swanning down soft focus lantern-lit streets —
full of sleep — under night’s blanket thrown,
god’s finger raised to his lips in a hushing pose,
staggering silence sat upon its golden throne,
ambled aimlessly around now for one too many summers,
yet still; never lingered quite long enough to simmer,
fawned in the shimmering headlights of the oncoming,
overawed in the presence of life’s ongoing glimmer,
in this moment:
the ancient holy dance of playful particle vibration resonates… recalling –
in this moment:
the dust which we will all return to; flickers in reflection at the eyes of recognition,
synchronicity is speaking… insistently and softly.
you don’t have to answer — dear witness: only listen.
originally posted on honest.cash