Thursday, June 27, 2013



Surrealistic harmonies of love fill the dead air
of the sugar-craving heart detoxing like the thorns
of a rose from the bloodbank of beauty that was
withdrawn from it like a fix in the spiral arm
of a sea star addicted to the radiance of the Milky Way
like a pulse of fire bleeding out albino caulking
from a poppy that died honourably by opening its veins.

What dreams may come, of unimaginable tenderness
and the affection of many dusks that glowed
like votive candles in the niche of shadows
that once hallowed the mere vision of a lover’s face
like the calyx of a waterlily your eyes drank from
like the holy grail the moon’s been looking for all along.

Crude truces are not a substitute sweetener
for the sophisticated tastes of a mystic peace
between you and the universe that’s never
been declared a defeat or a victory but nevertheless
leaves nothing unsaid between you and another
and though you could still hear the echoes of the snakes
hunting stars in your housewells like the occult wavelengths
in the visionary telescopes that put their eyes out
like broken mirrors to see prophetically better in the dark,
how dangerously courageous joy can be
when we turn it on each other like garden hoses
even as this house of life we’re leased to
burns down around us for want of water
to keep the most festive mirages of night
from becoming unsubstantiated liars in their sleep.

I can see the wake of wildflowers in the starfields
I once walked through resurgently in the spring
through a gate large-leaved soft basswood trees
towered over like a sacred grove of paintbrushes
the crows came home like the backlit ashes of the day
to roost in like a choir of minor nightmares at a black mass
when love grew fearful as a sign of deep devotion
there was a funeral bell on the dark side of the mirror
the blazing of so much light blinds it to and sets about
unravelling the wicks of its shadows and flames
like flying carpets of mystic happiness the moon wove
in the spare time of its crone phase, as Sinbad the Sailor
candles like a parachute in the bloodlines of hapless Icarus.

Eros and death. Thanatos and life in the same breath.
Copulative food for thought when the hourglass alarm clock
on the back of the black widow is timed to wake up
like a food chain in the middle of a climax
that ensures the continuance of life by ravishing
Daddy like the living host of a cornucopious pantry.

In time, by repetition, you might come to add
a diminutive to the most significant events of love
that inspired you like a flute intoxicated by snake music
before you switched from pica to piccolo
and your serpent fire began to sound more like an asp
buried in the sand, than the swaying wavelengths
of cobras in exstasis. Diminish the black magic
of your Medusan transfixions as just another one
of the facts of life that break like the filaments
of the spiderwebs that once lit up like dreamcatchers
in the dawn of elementally mysterious beatitudes of light.

If not the facts, then, at least, the acts of life
erected like obelisks of scar tissue to commemorate
the intimate war wounds of a crusading heart
in the bird-stained patinas of a public gravestone
that says we died significantly, though over the course
of time, the spell of the dream grammar wears off
and the logic of metaphor is like a tree ring
of fossilized rain buried in the dead heartwood
of the syntax we recollect our lives in the tranquillity
of dead languages that ebb and neap like a sea of shadows
on the moon, so, ghosts of who we once were
to one another, despite these seances we hold
with ourselves that can fairly say, yes, we died,
we gave it all up, you can retrospectively tell
by the depths of the solitude in our eyes
no one’s ever fully satisfied they know for sure for what.

Among the dragons of life, if the fires of love
don’t end in ashes, you have reason to doubt
the sincerity of the withered star buried in the urns
of the rosehips that have shed their petals like eyelids,
their scales like feathers in the balance
of a trial constellation worthy of all the trouble
you went through to keep on shining for lightyears
after there was nothing left to burn
but your unidentifiable fingertips like butterflies
in the sulphuric atmospheres between Venus and Vulcan
when your tears fall like acid rain on the firepits
of the scorched flowers that immolated themselves
like an Arab spring in the black market gardens
of the secrets you keep to yourself like swords
you once fell upon like wild irises pressed between
the covers of a book that’s never going to open
its mouth again like a nightbird between dawn and dusk
without celebrating the rootfires of the pain in a lovesong
even the floodwaters of life aren’t deep enough to put out.


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