June 11, 2012

poem 183 of a poem a day for 2012

surfing madness in the wake of erotic boating

writing mad poems
squeezing broken parted fingers
together finding how night
folds the holy fury of a day’s
slow dissolve hinging symphonies
gathering the turn songs of seed birds
who branch the quiet tide of an eating Moon  
they know She knows the forge of metals
into the black of crow feathers
bellying up the bar
West of Nod, East of Eden
wane-pulling salt sewing sulphur into dragons
sleeping close enough to dreams
to smell your way back to every coalesce
every fit frenzy mathematics
every electric rail of thoughts
with missing chain links peddling
why into a further and I am crawling again
sliding my hands to sin along your legs
I am straddling you a deep forest lean
a Summer’s coronation
as the words are wet-claying themselves
cupping our ache rhythms
moving my lips like thirsty rain
behind the wheel of a soul’s
drive into another   

I always keep the windows open
to scent the light
to find your hands
reaching back to me
an open key crumble kept waiting
for the remains of a day strewn
about the scatter shadows
beneath the trees
this is where clocks birth time
in the spun form cake of hearts
beating close enough to bend knees
as eager as a weaned wolf pup hungry
and burning for the roam
wading approval with a small kill
in its mouth down ears squinting
the Sun’s memory rising in a howl
the dark is a fertile place
that speaks the deepest fleeting language
we ever could compose
a poem or utter a word with
and upon the bent fingers
or mutter mumbles
the poet stumbles
and the poem is gone

another eaten part of the Moon
sample simple bleed fabric blues
twirling fantastic spaghetti fork and spoon
the world is a incubator of gravity’s desire
to shape what a soul can smell
when surrendering
when succulent
when salivating
when can I stop myself
from biting through the skin
on your shoulder
I am unrepentant
I want more
I slide my hands up
slowly grab your waist
my engine full of Romulus intent
in the clung ferocity of dark
in the short story between Dusk and Dawn
I am blind but honest here
wanting to be so close 
to the edge of impermanence
that I fear I will be mistook for a clever crook
as I unhook your bra and cup each breast
kissing your spine
as if I were born to do that
stanza by stanza
in breathless crescendo
poco a poco stuffing dreamt memory
to feast on when alone
or having fallen back asleep
in the thickening limbs
between right now and 
where every scent of you
lingers to stop time
articulating every word
the poet sees fit to sever
the pulse of technology
that de-magnetizes his soul
and steals sugar like I am along your skin
without the spread charm of vines
or lines that one by one climb home
becomes another poem

you show me ripe 
say to come get me every June
tune a spill velocity by threading two pieces
of something of anything chemically reactive
like Love is when seed wrapped
in an infinitesimally expanding Universe
that matches the way we heave ribcage melodies
playing songs that shepherds might
when travelling hill and dales
following the cascade of the stars’
mythological cardinal sweet sung fire
against the lush space between your black lace
and my undoing in a circle of salt
and coal ash along the garden wall
during Summer’s feast
sate lightning in the clouds
the gathered fogs
bleeding everywhere mad poems do
exits entrances painted doors
wormhole diets skip jumping
each kind of death
commemorated on a coin
in the jukebox

the familiars in the songs
say to me keep on moving
don’t stop til you get there
remind yourself that you never get there
and keep moving
brigade the turn story of the seasons
wait to eat the afterbirth
in the twilight, pines tipping, maples bowed
all belly for the amniosis
the genesis of riding freewill
as far as the rubber will burn
and then you crawl for all your worth
in mad poem currency
no rules, pure want, pure lust
even dust is slowing down but moving still
knowing the words of falling petals
and broken eggshell cities
coagulate the unzipping of the mechanical world
self-portaiting the kingdoms of glimpses
mad poems bare throats and aisle divides
that want as simply as my mouth
and tongue want words
or the sweet ripe of your hands
on my head and your hips
raising the dead saying keep on moving
don’t stop until you get me there
because poet you are between the horns
and not too late, you have gotten in
to wear surrender
to kneel finger slide
on a string pulling close
tonguing the brass ring
the roil the boil the simmer-hiss mount kiss
after kiss flick the shade light comes in fast 
and earnest

with you I am undressed
to the raw parts of my soul
here turning salt into rain again too
and yearn
the gasp lines
the willingness to do anything
you ask when you hold me
between your legs
and ideas no longer matter
as much being here
inside a moment caught
and captured as if we
were only jarring fireflies all along
the songs, the thongs, the prongs of madness
sharp sweets and washing feet
with scented poems and sleight of hand
my humanity is a dangerous kite
in your eyes skeleton keys dangling
in charged particles and you
the quiver tremble thinning of everything walled
you that rides me into ecstasy and agony
finding the poems and grinding
the madness sunrise to sunset
I get the fact that I am mad
but what I don’t get is how surrender
ties and unties together what we
tell clocks to take their hands off
when the ease to please someone
can stop time
like your breathless whisper
does to me
in the dark


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