'Baby Faun' a sculpture by Nikki Frances © |
sure, I want to leave a mark:
these are my regards in three parts
(part one, an enthalpy of want)
I steal into her
neck to shoulder exposed
she is looking out a window
in her kitchen, in comfort and regale
the lighting is ebb pulse candle
flickers lick her silhouette
her hands and fingers
out-stretched beneath
a round bottom-ed
stemmed glass...
I imagine she feels me
leans in instinctively
still looking out her window
it is late November
the typical Sagittarian early night
the northern hemisphere
is knifed with cold now
it says, dig into what you want...
I say thank you
and reach for her
lips with intention
rooting my digits
in beg and palm
I feel for what
her burning is
with elegant insistence
for how she wields me
in delicate ferocity
with her ripe
mourned desiccant-ed
mostly, deciduous sky...
she is turning a wheel
at a knowledge-d why
glass has tides, as we all do
living life too, by holding, releasing...
--------------------------
(part two, the exothermic reactionary soul)
a baby satyr
sat in ire
desired a spellbound
booking sound quiet
with crystalline shapes
of nearing Winter, spread
o'er leaves paper brown
with no bird or bee
northerlies to be
a-digging and raking,
rasping by teeth
and nails, where sleep
begins to break things
electron empty first
then core atomic
molecular heavens
and hells, will ring bells
and fill out your forms
and dance cards, so
please wear proper attire...
it was so sweet, being
wrapped in an enticed thee
you must please forgive me
for inviting myself in
I noticed the warm fire
and the free pour of wine
a harbor of arbor and womb
an inside of what can shelter me
from the death of many knives
as night goes by looming
about a-reaping under
November's Moon
there, ready to rise
is an eager blood
a-tongued in eyes...
She knows Lilith was right all along
didn't mind being an equal
when sometimes the greater She be
here is where the poem and I say fuck it
don't care if the turn wheel you imagine is rusted iron
or feathers from fowl plucked, a must for lying
truth is, sometimes we don't care
to keep by standing or sitting down
the clown king is an ever hungry mouth
and a gargoyle sentinel perched
everything that makes us wonder
if smiling is at all, ever real...
scary sometimes isn't it
the advance of this progress
we've realized as met is
an equal growth with
a spread of darker still
a shade fabric fog perhaps
with too many switches,
twitches and blink-y things...
I turn off as much as I can...
order warning service
share a room with
any surprises I can eliminate...
thus increasing the odds
my chanced-choice-d-control-fetish
will succeed...
yeah, I'm greedy like that
wanting your keepsakes soiled...
----------------------------
(part three, where the wild wombs roam)
the baby satyr
within an ire
of articulation, desires
wait, wade
fire and cycles
raw reaches
this life's beaches
a death clung to bones
yes, we have our cages
that we learn to love
to become what comforts us
to know our acquiescence(s)
and the thread spooled things
our soul may rattle
and drag along its way...
sometimes when merry
memory likes to drive
so slow it's seen as
sowing your sewn pieces
the sometimes you
and the sometimes me
the sometimes strangers
we might have caught
ourselves in league
or had been called
on as they, once
or twice before...
read the incarnates
they embrace ornamental-ism
origin wind and wickedness
in the rain that comes
to test and taste the ways
the nose knows, eyes are only lord
in mostly two dimensions
for we see, they cannot
fathom, the between(s)...
the wares were getting interesting
ashes, where once we carried seeds
collect in our pockets
dust for us to scatter before it rains
this our boots to the ground, bramble and fruition
our intuition, ignition, held breath wear
the places where there are stored stories of you
explaining how all of you
are thirsting more time
and that water knows this too
and when what a calendar
should look like is
going to be you
to rhyme...
song and interlude
hunger is a mood
so come find me
all grown up
and sated, here
near where you
might be already
a scent arrived
in fated prayer
preyed alive...
EJR ©
Love this, and thank you <3
ReplyDeletemuch gratitude for you saying such...
ReplyDeleteI'm a Sagittarius, so I have nothing but mad love for part 1. I also really dig the last three stanzas of part 3. Keep 'em coming, man. I really enjoy your work.
ReplyDeleteP.S. Jitterbug Perfume is on my very long lists of books to read.
Delete