divide

i have come to the conclusion that i am the most socially inept human being there is on planet earth. i go to a bar to meet all my sister's friends. while they watch the basketball game on the tv sets sprawled across the walls, i am thinking about activism. i take a napkin and start scribbling ideas about the united nations' role in alleviating poverty --part of it probably triggered by the book i'm reading right now. it's called A Generation Divided. it captures the elements of activism in the 1960's United States. what stirred our people --the young boys and girls, men and women to fight against racism, communism and big governments.

i will talk to someone, look at someone. smile. toast. drink a glass of wine. constantly thinking about foreign aid. how can we make amends to foreign policy. are slums inherently bad? what is the solution to this haggard infrastructure. who creates change? how do we legitimize change?

why can i just not be a normal human being and enjoy that basketball game in a bar, drinking beer and having a good time with friends? essentially socializing and not thinking about activism. i may have a disorder. i don't know. it's possible --i may have to hunt down my DSM from somewhere. yes, i'm pathologizing myself. story of my life!

yuletide

coming back to new york city makes me so very happy. every time. it never fails. never. seeing the sister, friends and family. when i walk around, it's as if i feel every step. there is a firm grip. and there is a certain confidence.

one by one, the lights turn on. jingling and sparkling. and there is a silent cheer. in every thing. and everyone. boy, it's beautiful.

i will keep this short and say, a lot has happened this year. lots of downs, some ups. a blend of emotions. never forgetting, yet moving forward. i say a little prayer for all the loved ones who are no more. little angels, today. they sing hymns to man. their voices, volatile.

there is a certain beauty in asymmetry. and i love it. art, for example. or scarves with tassels. bumping to an arrhythmic gait. and on the streets. i will sit and watch. peoples eyebrows. and the asymmetry and asynchrony of movements. so bizarre. so spectacular.

merry christmas.

all pictures by MDL

a-synchrony

those tales that disappear. are alive. and dead. in a swish. in a swirl. they are here. tonight. peeling skin from my soul.

the soul that traces a lineage of dreams. the dreams that scowl in ravenous hegemony. and the shrill of the timpani. the raga of stars. are asleep on the cradle. of destiny. and continents. submerged. as if your heart were on a flute. piping melodies of beats. the carousel of blood is awake on the clouds.

and you, my gentle pearl. welcome to my sweat. the chariot of diamonds breathe nightingales of dawn. like a glass box. parents of truce. and trance and idiosyncracy. we will pause. and bow our tongues. and knit our veins. one by one, from the yarn of fools. the caricature of breaths will sparkle on my fist. these fingers of tune. these nails of rhyme. this menagerie of lust. these pebble stones of fire. the sweat. the rush. the slush of blood and silken ova. they give birth to the archaeology of dance. the footsteps of tomorrow. this ballet has begun.

in your womb. so organic and pure. i have lost my self. the pout of cotton. the lips. feel them. they are wet with rage. this is a time of confusion.

this november thanksgiving

slowly. it goes.

shame. joys. tears. sweat. and laughs. for you, diamond wings.

to god, and rust. and the canopy of fate. here is my prayer. my prayer of prayers. for strength, and shame. and the prickle of black. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving. the whitewash and chalk stains are asleep on my walls.

to fingers of blood and allegiance of wombs, i give you thanks. wires emblazoned with the satin of scripts. your palm. where is your palm?

to vagaries of past. teach me your tunes. the failure has failed. and i am dry. but i give you thanks. this pastiche of fates sing serenades to the moon.

holding my hand. and folding my soul. the seams intact. there is a dizziness in the tunnel. the passage. the change. the garden of shadows. where we ran. hands tilted to the sky. sketching. like artists by the lake. shades of the raining bow, smeared across a tracing paper. wrapped around my fist. and tea stains from nine billion miles. sing soprano tonight. so beautiful, my love. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving.

heart in a box

what is any more beautiful than a heart in a box? think about that. beating and pumping. in a box.

sit. and dream. what mountains we are yet to climb. what rivers we are yet to sail. what clouds we are yet to touch. the instrumental man. so beautiful in its form. so timid and weak. and a confused paradox. this man within. the inner self. in the world around, slipping away from the allegory of dreams. slipping away each second. like a heart in a box. stuck at the bottom of a dangerous cave. feel the time is running out. look around. shaking heads, violently from side to side. the string of stars on the night sky, like christmas lights. are out of filament. the thread is torn. slipping away. and you breathe heavily. your heart screaming. in side your body. and tears pouring out of your skin. this cloak of shame, and confusion, and harrowing servitude. to life and the beating heart. it churns the life out of my bones.

where do i even start? like a heart in a box.

dots

often times. re-visit the floods. and watch from the skies a puppetry of souls. begging to please. over and over again. like whores with mandolins. poor. and wretched. and dry. weeping. like magnolia. what is with the magnolia fields on the mountain tops that screams the tune of church-bells?

pause for a minute. and hear the sound of silence. percolating. slowly. gently. through the skin. the veins rush with the vibration of cones. tickles the soul. gentle nightfall with the ornaments. there is a sound of sunset. the color. oh skin of trills, your scarlet scarf is gray with bleach and gravy from the feast. spots, like polka dots, is your fashion of dreams. your scarlet retracts. colors ablaze. on the pastel. this bleach of love and the feast of gore. so circuitous in its meander. the crimson quill is afloat by the sea. bless the fisherman who puts to rest. the carnal mockery of conch-shells. the quill shall rest. frozen from grips and dainty fingers. bleached and preserved for posterity.

the gold on my skin. cold and shy. asleep on my bone. painted with leaves of pearls and silk. and deities and gods. those gods of the temple. where we sacrificed our breath. and gave them to you. spinning on yarns. the silk and spool. of tragedy and rhyme. churning through the air. of dreams. one day. when neruda spake. in the wave-strike over unquiet stones.

the days are gone. the nights are fresh. nibble the black. this black is god. the god of gods smile across the shelf of tomes. in the stacks, where i left my soul.

mind games

one of those mornings when my mind wanders. back to the little coffee shop in longwood. on those high tables where i have laughed, cried, celebrated and mourned. those coffee cups are long-stained. with finger prints of the dead and the living.

one of those days where my impatience is strong. i become fidgety when this happens, and slightly aggressive. and my thoughts are all over the place. cancer children, heart disease and my misty future, bobbing up and down in my cursive imaginations. i just want to know, i scream to my coffee cup. asleep on my table top. it is pale with patches of blood. bloody rims of the past. my carry over from boston. there is this comfort. temporary at the most, in touching my coffee cup. this time is a drag. how slowly it moves. every second that rolls on my digital screens. i await.

one of those hours when i am tired. this ballet of sun shine and my fabric is long. i just want to know... this life. yet who is the messenger of fatalism? this is the alchemy of fate. there is a reciprocity, however. when the golden gold is washed away. the spirit has been paused, for a few minutes. this gentle relapse of negativity.

to give comfort, i dangle a neck tie against the brown of my book shelf. it is crimson with silver polka dots. wraps so gently across my neck. smooth, slick and slender. creased with my momentary clenches. it plays with the wind. and chimes against my breath. there is a closeness. i do not know how. or why.

still breathing. the edge of my lips are set in order. this morning. touched with balm. they tremble, how. the mind games of time. matter-less at thirty. yet scouring, this october. on tissue tops. i just want to go. i just want to know

dear longwood

walking around i looked at leaves. some are crimson. some are gold. asleep on the gravel road. there is a constant hum of raindrops today. like so many others...months before, when home was home. and i loved this home. and the marble of flames, burning with souls. from years and years ago. there is a voice of crimson. afloat the rain clouds. and the winds in this city of wombs. pregnant with love and tingling ivy.

i smiled all night. and drank rose. with friends and colleagues. like old times in the crimson parlor. this is not a sophistry of umbilical imaginations. or a terra cotta figurine of intangible dreams. this is a craft of realism and silk. threads that dangle by the canvas of blood work. the uniform. of believers and givers alike. i have missed this smell. of cancerous lesions. and cluttered ambulances. of trench coats on the brookline trail. and the caricature of the charles. so graceful in its meander...i want to kiss the waves. rippling down the river boats. and the rotunda of silver pebbles. i have missed this architecture of familiarity. and the muttering Harvardian at the bus stop with a china rose and handcrafted ukulele. and late night moon gazing on the roof of the library. against the cold cement. that housed millions of tales. scribbles from two centuries ago. may be i was song bird then or a cholera victim. or a cornet player in a court house. when did that soul learn to breathe?

to this city of love. my city of joy. i have missed your rain. like a collage of polka dots. and the geography of lunar trills. vous belle lune. and the house of medicine and granite metaphysics. this cove of electricity and unshaven aptitude. inflames my hunger. my desire. my belief. on this lone spiral, difficult and challenging. i will tread and fall. leap over dams. some day, dreaming in dreams.

metropolitan manhattan

running through the conservatory garden this morning. i have missed you love. your smell. your leaves. your windows and awnings, stretching down the streets of fifth. i smiled. like a child. it feels so good to be back.

the lady at the Met. the ladies and men. and their observant children. so polished in her charisma. i loved her smack. her lips tightly pressed. delicate pearls trickling across her neck line. she was stern. and glazed at art. the language of paint. and motions of hands. this is an orchestra of finger work and acrylic. the statuettes in the hallways are blazing in the sunshine. the marble so white. the alabaster so sweet. the graphite so grey. and the art students by the master works. sweating and breathing. their language so beautiful.

i read through the little blurb. those pictures, so so very interesting. ohm night. hawks. your use of the phrase, i reveal the dark side of men. the way we are wild, and raw. i love it. a man being comfortable with body. the construction of perfect image in society. has blown away the scent of the table-salt manhood.

tone

sometimes you believe that there is something out there for you. what, when, where, how. you have no clue. but you want to know. and you want to believe.

i will keep this short.

in this process of tracing futures, i have re-found my faith. in my god and in my heart. lined with a pencil ring of moonshine. emotionally, i am holding up. as much as i can. sometimes i really want to break a glass, or beat my walls. and slide down the paint. the friction was destined. may be. but through all of this, i never forget to breathe. and feel my pulse. and my beating heart.

this is who i am. T.D.L. a twenty two year old boy. believing in crimson and the sounds of veritas. but there is a world out there. with many worries and many nets. with dying souls and bleeding wombs. there is a duty. there is a purpose. may be one day. what if...

to the believers. and dreamers

to the believers. and dreamers.

it is the season of trilling mahogany. of shadow whisperers and tendrils. and the melody of dreams. the sound. so loud. so crisp. blurs... sometimes. carrying a palm. an arm. and belief. we belong. to the land of songs. to the cradle of yarns. spinning. this spool of crimson and blood.

in my memory of gold. the mist of your cello strings sing harmonies to the moon. a bowl of talcum. so tender and labile. i walk. and walk. there are crystals on my palm. believe. the tune of flautists tonight melt into my soul. there is a cry, by the carnival of doves. i miss you so, little city of pearls. your scape of lands, and tempera of gods are ablaze by the alleyway. pattern of steps and prints of feet, playing monopoly with my soul. my beats are yours, you crimson quill. your care and love. and tenderness of touch. the gardens of faith and psychedelic healers are awake in the congress of death. the glint of your rouge. and the sequin of clouds breathe my breath. come back to my heart.

i will hope. till then. in the canvas of oil. patches of threads and the spectacle of fate. the strength to stand, in this ministry of void.

ruby-bled

they twinkle in the sky. in a garland of smiles. and i ran up to them tonight. stretching my arms to the furthest i could. tell me what tomorrow says. and the day after. and the day after. this labor stole my waters.

i believe in belief. and the petals of hope. and the lyrics of prayer. of a free mind, and a free spirit. and a free soul.

dear god of pearls, where is the moon? i stole her flakes, like paper-boats on ash. and in the box by my lamp, i grow her nails. sprinkle with love from a canister of doves. freedom. and gold. widowed in this palette of brittle wood. wanton. flames. and flames. what did you burn? flesh. or sand. or crimson turpentine by the howling rivulets?

i pause. a moment. the clocks tick. dali is dead. and alive. and dead. and alive. and alive. and alive. a moment gone. pregnant with fumes from Nazi clay. where did wisdom hide that day? when man killed flesh. holding hands. the realism of imagery tonight is a carousel of fantasies. spinning like a top. on grass. and air. spinning. spin. whirring. whir.

your faith. and belief. and prayers. will be thanked one day. when you ring your knuckles in the sheen of platinum. raw and fierce like bleeding dandelions. one day, when the velvet folds to the anomaly of doorsteps. and your foot prints, i will measure. and smile with the moon. nights after nights. playing cancer gods. infectious? no. succumb. and fight. fight with your fists. make a clutter of rhyme on the dime of your shade. that vacancy of home. homeless with beggars and bangle-sellers, scurrying to the mountains. and to art. and paint. and pastel green. the wax and mush of your vulnerabilities. tangible to my spleen. oh love of loves. twinkle tonight. like diamonds on satin. or a corsage of sapphire. ruby-bled with wisdom.

for truth. what is truth?

oil

and the rain drops. they tickle on my palm. and i roll my sleeves. little inkblots on my shoulders. tingling. and chiming. in the wind from the coasts. far away from the land of tides.

tonight is the dance of moon gods and rain. and the clouds, they build. like chariots of talcum. soft and brittle. the secret tales of man and rain spill across the mezzanine love. the passion of skins. and the violent crochet of womb and ivory. and in the banquet of pearls, we remember the times. we walked and walked. through pebbles of joy. by the riverside. on a cold evening in june. wine on your fingertips. tingling and shaking. like an anesthetic. the pirouette of dreams.

and as i sat on the bar stool. the wood spoke to my toes. you massage my soul and give me warmth. for they chiseled me to perfection. to please. and please. in silent antipathy. they hacked my limbs. i have lost my saliva. the saliva with which i made love to the wind. and how she danced -the wanton wind. how she danced on my thighs, and caressed my skin. but she is a widow tonight. with a hand that slips the grip of charcoal wombs. the pain has scorched her soul.

for when you are one in this pool of man. without a finger to hold. or a ring to love. think of your paint. the oil of your skin and the race of your beats. one by one, they pave that road of love. the love of desire and the desire of love. and man, and moon and ribbons of rhyme will dissolve into your womb. you will bear fruit one day. for the palm of your tree, those bones of velvet, and the melody of lungs will rise. rise one day to the pinnacle of dreams. when your womb will ripen with poets and gods. and you will cry. with mercy. and rage. and violent lust. your cheeks like rose and hissing periwinkles. your poets will fold. and wind. and jingle. and scream. and screech. and hiss to man. you are the woman of worth.

i believe in your soul. let us hope...

untitled 1

i am by the bed. and the lights burn. they glow. on my skin. wet tonight. wet with water. from my eyes. heavy with flesh. heavy with thought. heavy with uncertainty. i am tired. burning sometimes. this make believe microcosm. of vaginas and pain. of cancer and love. of tragedy. and the rejects on the alleyway. lined up in the tapestry. of cardiac embroidery. of pumps. and gasps. of drowning fetuses. screaming through the tunnel. of darkness. of hope. i want to see your face. the caricature of your brows. and how they play on the crescent of the moon. jaundiced with turmeric from the night sky. burning. and glowing. in the blackout of the universe. the continuum of race. of racing men. and organic love. plastic on the brow. bending. and twisting. twirling and swirling in the stillness of mid-air. in the blue of chlorine. and the green of bile. smudged. smudged onto your chest. smudged with ten fingers of bones and curls. and pressure. i tremble tonight. and swirl with diamonds on my temple. diamonds of rust. brewing. and smoking. steaming. in the moonlight of a september evening. ribbons curling. and curling. and yelling monogamy. tonight i think of picasso. and degas. and the kiss. the kiss i kiss. on the silk of love. this aphrodisiac of passion. diffusing like vapor. stain. menstruation. and the blood of life. the blood of love. the blood of your womb. veiled in fear. i am coming out of your canal. i shiver tonight. that blood i want to taste. your taste of womanhood. your taste of adulthood. my brain sweats and freezes. embracing the past. this life i have lived. a child of billions. when i was born. when was i born? i do not remember. and i cry tonight. when you say you believe in me. why? why? why do you believe in this orchestra of fate? and watch my hands? as they curl and fold and crease and tremble...in this tapestry of life. i shiver tonight. at the moon. my eyes. are shot. they bleed. and bleed. and bleed. and beat. i feel my heart. it beats so coy. so shy. leaping on my hand as i place it on my chest. my drying tongue.

what happened tonight? this game of tears?

obey

tonight is the battle of love. picture books and montages of a flowing city. palpitating light. and the cold cursive silk. the city lights are out. but i hear footsteps. painful. a carousel of wax and rain. the charles. the flow of rivers. in a land far away. swirling with the tides of oceans. and the deep soulful cry. i miss your warmth. the misery of deaths. the camaraderie of pastel. the fingertips of muslin. the fabric of disease.

as i sit by the window shades, i cry. and cry. shores by the ocean. i want to feel your flesh. dip my nails in your womb. the temple of hearts. where are you, love child of desire? my mind clogs. wanting you. missing you. your twinge of sexuality. numbing your city maze. the maze where we walked. holding hands on the day you freed your slave. the carnival of blood and indigo sifting on the sky. the sky i miss. the winds and sails of riverside. and the wealth of avenues. the wealth of green. grass and phlegm. ribbons upon ribbons of violet violins. the art calls from the conservatory. and the comfort. of love. of sex. of misunderstood tales. blood from olives. blood from raw desire. stains. so beautiful on my lap. the smell of your breasts. your pleats. you are pregnant with lust. and dreams. of dying lives. we held hand by the pond. and on the rail. your head on my chest. alcohol in your liver. but we sang. and danced. your eyes bloodshot, as if they would bleed. like that of Mary, the mother of virgins. the secret, christian life of your incest. what fun we had by the beach. chasing kites and electricity.

i wish i was there. playing with your toes. but alas, we are apart. distanced with miles and miles of sand and stones.

sigh.

the carnival

the carnival of cotton, cloud and sugar flakes

tonight is the carnival of wanderlust and pebble stones
i am afraid. the baskets of ivory and golden mist
have crawled the Ganges. or by the hudson
where a lady sleeps. by the park. on the river of dead
her womb aching with eyes. of real flesh. ribboned with haze
of sodomy and incest. a prostitute of gore.
she wanted nails. and breaths. and a violent wrest of milking breasts
tell the world. i am a woman of doom. and i have desires of love.
warm. pulsating. moist. trickling pain and shame.

today is the carnival of colors and bangles.
and pyramids of silk. the dandelions by the riverside
are wrapped in flames. deep pasty yellow. like a smudge
of wax and soft pastel on the window panes. sweaty with the rains.
twinkling and tinkling. glistening. as the trains rumble along
thickets of fantasy. piling up. like bricks of waves. crashing on an easel.
this world of wanderlust. and carnivals.

a sketch of sketch

a photo montage of steel and clouds. Photo: David Z


you ring the bell. and walk up. your steps on steps. make little cliques on the varnish. it is half-golden. half-brown. and you float on the hand rails. i do not know your name.

but the feel of your skin. on my skin. your tentacles are in fright. gaping eyes hemmed with sweat. little beads of desire twirling on a carousel. on the stripes of your temple. i ache for your touch. you smell like honey dew and cigarette smoke. my eyes on your lips. my fingers on my thighs. who are you, mountain pearl? from the main of maine, you say. first, new england. and then, oh let us be god believers. like shepherds. and crucify our sexuality. in a blanket of mold. there is a god. on the precipice of clocks. ticking. a wave. and tides. pregnant with rage. and feisty hate. for the cuffs and blades. a september morning. remember? when you lost your son. in the pouf of shameless gray crystals. a harrowing cloud. and you split your head. against the wall of flame. in cold cement. by the stroke of brooklyn. for do you say your god took your son? and along with it, his beads of honor?

i will go mad. if by the green and your lustrous whim. you do not place your palms on mine. i will tear a snake of rivulets. spurting blood on your breasts. please. i am begging you. tell me your name. your love of myth and the gentle greeks outweigh the love of man. like charcoal chunks in flames. smoldering to death. hear the heart. beat. and beat. and beat. until you feel a twitch. you will cry. at pointless dreams. and verbal rhyme.

hand me a jar of smiles

raindrops

see how i dance. my legs. and muscles. and the brown. against the magic of wood. a generous tap. and swirl. like a swivel. or a spiral. like steps. or a stairwell of blue. like a chest of water bubbles. so fluid. it's as if you stand on a marble top. glazed with irony. and watch the saliva. trickle down your lips. treading down. in lumps and bumps. down your curve. of melting face. and by your chin. it drops to void. a space of dust. of dangerous germ. of naked parsimony. of reckless story tellers. who roll their meat. in a voluptuous lull. and a carousing swirl. your fingertips. clenched. to the sound of drums. beating. in concordance. resonating. those sticks on skin are made of wax. of sensuous paraffin. your gentle touch. which gave her joy. your mother. who died of sweat. and seduction. that game of cancer.

this is for the moon gods. your beautiful milk. with patchwork artistry. of shaven bronze or rustic gold. or dazzling silver. the radiance of your flesh. flickering behind rain clouds. the sheet of dust entangles your rhyme. as you dance in the darkness. my nails on your flesh. scratching your breast. i am jealous of your beauty. the architecture of dreams. and the carpet you lay from your tongue to toe. this earth. this bowl of blue. and grass and seed. for across the ferry trails. and fairy tales. and the jargon of desires. the beating heart and eye balls. mascaraed to the crisp of twirling sexuality. is seeking your love. for he forgets. today. yesterday and tomorrow. of your pendulous skin. anemic tonight. you look pale. are you afraid that in a matter of clockwork your shade will gray? slipping away. day by day. second by second. into quiet nigritude. for when the swivel spins. you will lift your face. fair speckles of ivory trills. like a garland of pearls will appear on your forehead. as you unmask the coal that peppers your cheek. this is the time for the holy trinity. or the idols of dawn to talk religion. for when came christ to the cavity of sand? did you make sandcastles out of air? little glass clusters of sheen. and mica. the creator. your creator. my creator. are made from ribs. of your cosmic death. each day. as you lay the leaves of freedom.

beyond the line and the temple of time. there is a porch. engraved is your name in blood from the hounds that destroyed virtue. adam and his eve. where? in the caves of vienna or by the seine or the naked hudson gushing down the tempera of yolk. this yolk. you shameless fool, you stole from the dandelions. yawning with your destiny

pleats

what green we saw that night. crackling flesh. and red sparkles. exploding in the night sky. spouting lava. of yesterday's freedom. and the trade of the unions. centuries in a shoebox. or a bell jar full of sand. the lights on the scraper are shimmering tonight. blood. dove. sapphire.

and there is a shuffle by the riverside. a merriment of sorts. and a cluster of eyeballs from the sahara. or the valley of orchids. through your merry kaleidoscope, look at the water. pantaloon of the tribes. and naked communism. a botch of justice. you call it order. you deluded idiot. if moralism is the norm, i will be a nomad. and scamper. and slide. and kill your authority. stab your tongue so you speak no more. the castles of tomorrow, in your city of dreams, will crumble in the quake. and take with it a million arms. those arms that gave you shape. in the nature of your holiness. in the god you believe. in the rhyme of rhymes and the lace of lace. and twirling jaws of seamless galaxies. what imagination shall swell. through man and womb. and your jittery lips. cold vagina. selfish sexualia. the mother of smoke. like ointments. the filthy grease. you call it balm. to calm the calm. and selfish self. twilight of lights. stitch. and sew. and hem. this nonsensical rhyme. the lyrics of rhyme. as they did by the shelves. in charcoal and oil. smooth as jazz. so raspy. so coarse. like saws and blades on leaden leaves. oh the rhyme!

this is your world. of yellow ponds. why yellow you ask? jaundice. they have lost their minds. they have no self. useless bodies that walk around. like empty bowls from the land walls. they cheer the mob. they want to be a hundred souls. compressed in shreds. they are the leaders today. what a spectacle of mockery. go, you say. go. go. impress your lord. oil his loins. impress. your tresses and locks. remember your pleats. and the beautiful smile. you cosmetic doll. of golden degrees. service they call it. oh you helped the roads? the communion of age, which exists by the doll shop? like bangle sellers. how shiny they look. dazzle your eyes. you value at least a hundred. its real worth of one. lovely. it's this world, little pebbles. show your show. even if you are a pauper dying of loss. for in this canvas of breaths, all you need to do. is cast a web of beauty. to knit a spectacle of gold. for if you fail, you will lose. the war will end. no one cares, little pebbles. you have to win.

finger prints

i keep having forks from that night. K V. when i stepped through the wood, rang the doorbell. it sounded like a cry. shrill. resolute. scary. like a wailing womb. its arteries pierced. and frayed with blue. you took me by my lips. felt my pulse. my racing beats. like violin strings in boisterous cacophony.

i felt your bones, that fierce evening. the shape of your nipples. robust and ripe. what a beautiful brown. like chocolat et lait. and your beaming torso. so symmetrical. a paradise of geometry. the tenderness of your skin. it smiled as i breathed. the currents of red. what crimson rage! your tender touch. silken fingertips. it played with my soul. like gentle hide-and-seek behind mulberry shrubs. with the smell of burning rosewood. and as i lay by you, a whirlpool of imaginings rushed through my eyes. dilated and choking. ready for release. like the gore of labor. the building tense. the rising drone. the merry chimes. and the reeling crescendos. they rise the lilt. to explosive histrionics. as the percussion rings and the violas swell. the cellos squeal with violent romance. and the artist by the lake. jittery with sweat. swirling paint on palettes and the skinless canvas. the easel broke, into a million frowns.

to the colors of sexuality. pray for your art. for yours is one i went to hold. you slipped away. through the sieve of symmetry. the antithesis of emotionality.

for if you love the moonshine, you will fade in thirty...

to you br

what a wet thursday afternoon it was. little puddles of flesh by the sidewalks. people chuckling. and muttering. and lifting their arms through the water drops. to hail a wheel. to go home. and cry. or heave. or eat. a dream, from across the seas.

it was the time when you and i walked on pebbles and the charcoal of a gravel. by the marble of temples and science. and the dome of grey where knowledge cured man. and on the bridge. and the illuminated wine. how smooth. how frail. like beating skin and flawless silk. that jar of red. the pink rosé. and amber smiles. the green and purple by the pond. ablaze in the night sky. through clouds of haze. and whirring mist of phantom minds. what a beautiful void. what a riveting tunnel. of gentle rhymes and quizzical minds. smiling and joking. like we were born in the womb of sand. a million years ago. holding fists and bleeding sweat. like feeble brows clasping fortune. whether you wrote novellas. or the catechism of breasts. by the sparkling charles or the smiling seine. you will leave the doors. of a greener castle. peeping and peeking through a veil of fear. i have your back. for if you fall, i will lift. as much as i can. with shattering veins and bleeding wrists, i will lift your soul.

for you can smile. when you are married and mother of three. and your ringed mate, your oath-taker, will flee the floods to hear your lyrics. of science and man. and the trickle of raphael. as painted on the tapestry of love.

welcome to the pedestal of dreams.

brooklyn brooklyn take me in

brooklyn brooklyn take me in. when at first i learned to speak, i used them all to fight. with him and her and you and me and it's just a waste of time.

and the violin rhythm rose. to a room full of cheering people. and a loud sound like a little thud. little Miss A's recital.

and i may have cried. a drop of two of sweet silver. the music may have paused. the viola played. like clapping hands. a jeering pale of lovers.

i miss your voice baby. you died and cried. in your purple cage. on the record bar. while your clasp. my clasp. we were headed south.

one foot in and one foot back. cut the tiles and jump the tracks. the avett brothers. and the mysteriousness of your headphones. what a cold cult.

even if they lied on your face. and scratched your fist with the rage. and violence of a dead father. you angered at them. and then laughed innocence. you shameless thing. how could you

and then you say those eyes have no patience. while you sipped the cup of liquor tea. and squeezed the death of a lifeless palpitation. a poor soul who has nowhere to go. and is at your utter behest.

and what made me vomit today. was not the filth on their corridor. but the grue of your soul. again you laugh.