Life hangs in air like a translucent weight
ponderous, dull brown, tepid air of spring
laments through ornamental landscapes,
clustering around my head, grunting oracles.
Lesions and liaisons, phoney fellowships;
no one traces the fading brightness on
rosy neck, slow decay of fostering heart.
Caught between the crumbling beams of
a majestic monument, I am the frail vine,
twisting and waving, swinging to be free;
my tattered body, too green to be wizened.


It is not oppressive; this loneliness,
I have an imaginary friend; a reflection
in streaming melancholy. I do not really
understand her, but I call her Madame;
wisps of smoke fly about her, hydrangea
blue, she has an inexplicable broken air of
an entombed muse, the sort poets seek
to lose and gain. She floats in dark azure,
dotting the thick veils of sunlight,
she slips, trips, tarries, parries,
accompanies me everywhere; both of us
meandering to nothing in a turbulent maze
like inevitable failures, when I look away
it seems she has sliced me open; misspent
life dying within. I get rid of her on a sun-baked
green-field, my fingers reeking of roses,
knees sore with chasing infatuation, twilight
carries me home in sooty arms, she waits for me
naked on bed, so cold looking, sin-stained,
vacant eyes; she cannot comfort me.
I am almost surprised she is still there;
my reflection.

Valentine’s Eve

Sorry, I could not
kiss you today
I’d conjured
a heavenly smack,
leisurely gentle,
between delightfully
ticklish, and
savagely orgasmic

A feeling of repose,
which passes you by
without scarring;
rose -scented
exhilaration of life
in fairy realm.
Why I didn’t, you say?

As I lay enmeshed in
relentless skirmish of
forever and now
the emptiness of moment
welled up my eyes.

Even perfect love
ebbs and flows
hour to hour;
is the most lonesome
oscillating emotion
that pitches the moon
freezes the sky.

For once my darling,
I’d struggle against
masculine indifference
suffer defeat
hide rainbow heart
conceal bruised lips.

Tomorrow we’ll overcome
incalculable worries
turn fluid in
pure rapture of being
rupture in
poetic coarseness
speak the language of
nightingales and ravens.

Could we ever make do with
anything less than excess?


When he is away everything’s just a sense of
wrong; indescribable, gritty, un-gettable, blue-grey.
Nothing at dawn seems right; sunset, moonrise,
it’s half past ten, night unfolding her black petals.
Gleaming fangs. She smacks the droplets of sweat
he’d left to bloom in darkness. With the tip of her
tongue she traces a crescent moon, molten ivory
spread in circles, steeped in his smell. Physical
stimulation pounding after her, choking, choking.
She waltzes like a hymn; unabashed. Open.
Her feet speeding through the lowering sky,
shuffling over his body’s firmament, falling,
falling like a shooting star; miserable, triumphant.
She shuts her eyes, desire flaming in ringlets.
He spreads his naked arms, disturbingly intimate,
hot illuminance reaching out from neck, spilling
across his cheeks. Sexy. Her love is an ebullition,
infectious, full-blown rose, prowling in an
erotic fantasy. Revengeful. She keeps him awake
for one thousand nights. He clasps her in moonlight,
mental osculations, sinful breaths. She is a volume
of music; a multihued blur, longing to be windswept.