poem of where her weather and scent sent me ...

graphic design art by Hara Katsiki ©

yes lady girl 
agent demise 
to reprise 
surprise me 
as if I lay bleeding 
dying for a breath 

you are my 
phoenix and ash associate 
a back side contagious 
and outrageously inviting 

I'm biting cheek to cheek 
fighting sleep 
seeking the kite and string 
of this night 
and without keys 
or care other than 
it being right now 
how dare the poem 
slide surreal 
between slats 
and old newspaper 
when the flat 
was re-done 
after the great war 

Geppetto messianic opus penthouse 
petting the mouse turning 
the keys into lightning 
gather tides to rains,  
symbols and 
explanations ...

"I'm not anything", 

he says fading 
into deepest of sleeps, 

"save for the string 
and wooden dowels 
the cloppetty-clop-clop 
of my metal cups stop 
and the herky-jerky 
manner in which 
my marionettes switch 
to silent and still 
allowing dialogue to sink 
into eager ears 
of an audience 
I had captured 
then and there ..." 

puppeteer near exhaustion 
been starting revolutions 
instead of sleeping 
well we know ...

all about these stories 
don't we glory seekers ...?

there is this girl 
she wears me dreaming 
she wears knives 
where her eyes 
ought be 
I tell myself 
her limbs 
and fingers 
cut through fog 
and it is 
in this desire 
an abyss to consecrate 
is said for thee ...

to not leap 
for a kiss 
is to miss 
when life 
leaves me ...

a stationary 
bi-valve 
balloon 
waiting 
for pinprick 
dark

underwear 
surfboard 
heavy roll wall curls 
we went 
broken egg yolk at night 
yoked to fire, we awoke 
painted with 
landscapes 
and fever 

they said 
I kept repeating 
Lilith's name 
as if this 
was I and I said 
as a blessed 
singular memory 
of life before 
during 
and after 
wards 
these words  
I am repeating 
am repeating 
I'm eating 
reaping 
I and eating 
of me 
reaping 
and me, the 
repeating 
the repeating
of Lilith's name ...

Heaven leans in 
spells Hell 
watching Eden 
aware of where 
I've been ...

with a nod 
and blink 
I am winking 
at the gates 
they point at me 
to go through
and as I will often do 
I am thinking about 
lying down right here 
because it isn't raining 
and I am drunk enough 
to convince myself 
of how dry 
and insect-less 
their bellied boughs 
merit for my sleep tonight ... 

I wonder 
what old pines 
think 
when a poet 
crawls under 
their wings 
to find sleep 
in the thick air 
of a warm 
summer night ...


EJR ©