Unfinished -squalid
hidden in my trenchcoat like Joan of Arc in armour
turned to the spirit, body moulded inside, breasts
cups like hearts between palms
yielding to a human excuse for life. Trips
to dark places for madness
and jazz to cure Novembers and carry with you
on long journeys to nothing special
as you run to the bus station suddenly so drenched that it just doesn’t matter
its wet being wet for you, observing from that private place
no matter
so you laugh and laugh and laugh
knowing that this is just rain and there is always a dry roof
somewhere
its calls to me like pain
the need for approbation
and excuse to look at things
the way another’s voice caresses the face
the breath in distance short
cold air marking its passage, joined
but kept separate. the out the in
visible as life conforms
to its own judgement
even if that’s just another opinion…
So often
gifts to say we love
we knew,
the pleasures swift
we whore we spite
in spite.
Love you love me,
a door
to open wings. The strings
cut promise. A ligature of disguise.
Heart held out still. Surprise
at empty flung into sung into.
The lips peeled back,
a quick surfeit,
A fashions aficionado.
Then lost again. The time swept
gibbet still tainted by the blood
and fetish
of the last prophet. that last disguise
of mine
I saw you take, the handkerchief across
your face lip smeared by your red.
Your pink pulsed wet, still waiting for begun.
The sun won’t know your flesh for long,
it’s a quick inspection at best
anyway.
You’ll learn to leak me.
I’ll teach you.
seb Said:
on December 5, 2007 at 9:26 pm
Very good stuff here. Truly impressed (and it ain’t easy)
constantine pantazonis Said:
on April 2, 2008 at 5:22 pm
i’ve only scratched the surface of your work, but i’m glad of this – it is rich, intelligent, passionate – not something one wants to rush through.
louis Said:
on November 14, 2008 at 3:52 am
thanks for lending me the lines…hope u dont mind
Unfinished -squalid
hidden in my trenchcoat like Joan of Arc in armour
turned to the spirit, body moulded inside, breasts
cups like hearts between palms
yielding to a human excuse for life. Trips
to dark places for madness
and jazz to cure Novembers and carry with you
on long journeys to nothing special
as you run to the bus station suddenly so drenched that it just doesn’t matter
its wet being wet for you, observing from that private place
no matter
so you laugh and laugh and laugh
knowing that this is just rain and there is always a dry roof
somewhere
its calls to me like pain
the need for approbation
and excuse to look at things
the way another’s voice caresses the face
the breath in distance short
cold air marking its passage, joined
but kept separate. the out the in
visible as life conforms
to its own judgement
even if that’s just another opinion…
So often
gifts to say we love
we knew,
the pleasures swift
we whore we spite
in spite.
Love you love me,
a door
to open wings. The strings
cut promise. A ligature of disguise.
Heart held out still. Surprise
at empty flung into sung into.
The lips peeled back,
a quick surfeit,
A fashions aficionado.
Then lost again. The time swept
gibbet still tainted by the blood
and fetish
of the last prophet. that last disguise
of mine
I saw you take, the handkerchief across
your face lip smeared by your red.
Your pink pulsed wet, still waiting for begun.
The sun won’t know your flesh for long,
it’s a quick inspection at best
anyway.
You’ll learn to leak me.
I’ll teach you.