Monday, March 21, 2011

Corps drapé au feu des éclats de la lune

Couvre-moi en feu!
Peut-être je peux allumer
le chandelier entre ton main
et le mienne.
Le jour est prêt d'exploser tranquillement...
comme un petit rêve
cyclique et plein
de l'air d'électricité .
Ma peau se salit par
les éclats du ciel;
et tienne a un gout
aux nuits sur le lit
passé comme le tableau
plus pittoresque...
Je ne suis pas religieux
mais je prie maintenant
en chantant mon chanson aux printemps;
je prie que tu bois bien ces mots
(on connais que nous avons tous soifs).
Mais je peux pas
réciter ces mots en anglais;
mon langue arrêtera
au première mot
je suis certain de
Même-si tu ne comprends pas
les lettres entre ces phrases français,
tu peux glisser sur la glace
aux fenêtres du bâtiment
des mes sentiments.
Aux mes yeux,
je peux te montrer
ce que je veux dire
mais personne n'a pas cette patience
dans notre ère.
lis ce que j'écris!
Lis les lignes
dans mon voix.
Je jette mes espères au nuit
mais heureusement pour moi,
tu y vis
à côté de la lune,
poussant mes lèvres
avant les tiennes.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Brief Statement for a Bed Too Big

The laughter I want to see inside
cannot be forced from the faucet like water.
In the next breath
the effort will be there.
Pumping from the well
the joy locked inside the crags;
deep beneath the bedrock
within the fabric of the sheets
among the lofty heights of the
cycle of day.
All the air taken
will try not to be thrown back out
into the void of a lost body.
Fading into the A.M.
here is a roar in an envelope
a raucous laugh
or a sigh too loud to be contained
nonetheless here it is
on the dusty desk I keep.

Rest will not come easy
as long as these sighs choke,
and sure enough tonight
I do not breathe from my mouth.

With my breathe lost,
I aimlessly gasp
and roll around the dirtied sheets
soiled from days of taciturn dreams
and roll I must
flattening today's dough
for tomorrow's bread.
Tomorrow morning
I will awake hungry.

Hope in Morning

Each night as sleep
catches way onto my vessel
as it slinks away from harbor,
the birds' calls sound pas and dance
around my windows and shades
framing the panes with harmonious aches
of world weary breezes and eyes-shut distances.
I am finding a chirp
amidst the twilight roar
that is choking the new dawn,
cutting its throat and spilling the blood
onto deep carpets of dark.
Song of my slumber,
this echo of a chorus,
may you continue on your narrow path
paved with bright melodies
while I continue to drink
the velvet syrup inside my head.

Harmony of Two Flesh Covered Lands

Swallow me in a hurling backlash
of ox-driven madness
pushing the dirt in my brain
to hearty crops of a
sun soaked heart.
But the frost has not yet subsided
"and your dear hands can not yet
pick flowers from this field"
so speaks the season.
The budding floral spectacle
soon will rise
side by side, I wish,
among my dutiful fields.
I lay in patience and in good comfort
under the leafless tree
the page-full notebook
the touched pillow,
ready to breathe deep
the melodious aria
penned by springtime
wherein you will arise
from the tremolo of March,
as a bursting chrysanthemum.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

If It Were All a Cycle

Whirlwind comma placer,
sleep well tonight and let your
tired head come crashing down
upon my sentiments' wild grace
-let these be your pillowtop and bedspread.
I can only give my wishes and intentions
a bit of passion,
and these few reasons
held between the cracks running
across my hands
-after all I am only a sum of events
a photo of a portrait of moustachioed relatives
and a stargazer.
Seeing as how you are in motion
I have come to terms
that I too am a blur.
Eyes closed shimmering laugh
-it rings within my head
leaving the echo of splendid voice
playing back the song of
a warm inception.
And if that Ubermensch was right,
it will forever be ringing
eternally reoccuring
for the sake of my passion
and the weight on this life's shoulders.
If a demon were to rise
beneath my bed tonight
and tell me each moment
will play itself over and over
as time stretches its fabric
I would not strangle the creature
but pet its head
thinking of the constant laughter
hitting the back of my skull.

Atomic Caricature

Tugging the corners of the horizon
-new morning pulls its woollen façade
over the face of omniscient twilight
as the man in the moon is off painting
my portrait atop a nebula canvas.

Down below on the muddy ground
I ready the back of my throat
in preparation to promisingly greet
the whirlwind piece of art HELLO BONJOUR
venturing from the dark photon velvet
cut around an unseemly gravitational frame.

The hand of a god is teasing me
covering my portrait with a hazy vale
thick with liquid light and smoky skylines.
I see the canvas
marked with swirling photons
pushing themselves up and down
flashing back and forth
leaving me to bask in
what half of myself is lightly planted
on the gritty ground.

Then the image fades
leaving the weight of my body
and a foggy atomic caricature in my head.

Farewell but with no sorrow
-in this exhalation
I speak to the flailing thread
hanging as I push
my feet forward onto a
sand choked shore where
the salt spray tastes sweet
but the touch of the tongue
is not fooled by the waters' bitter rush
as a wave pours its life into the throat
cutting short a breath
cuing the senses
to rush and dance and fornicate in a mutiny
of delight and excitement
and warning.
Just like centuries before
the moon wanes
and I can see the portrait
hanging in the halls of a crater.

Said the star dwelling lips
of the artist at large.
I held out my arm
a sharp slice of my flesh
fell onto my feet
and out poured my breath
out flowed the black blood
it followed the red and black streaks
of twenty-first century bile
into the sea
to be swallowed by the pounding surf
to be tasted in the back of my throat
when my own portrait falls on me
and I land face first into the tide.