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.