Fire

Some say the burn is necessary
but I beg to differ.

Those rising feelings
when someone is on your mind.
Do they really mean to be there
or are they an excess of Dickens’s cheese?

Will you wake to find the burn
has melted your toasted thoughts
to reveal nothing but a corruption
of moldy imagination?

Of course there is that smile
and those eyes
that fabric touch
and the dancing soft-footed perfume
which as a whole burns holes
but really, do we need it?

That fire
consumes
resistance,
and yet …

The discord

A voice of sawdust
swallows the night

A touch of barbed-wire
awakens the imagination

A feel of smiling pain
softens the heart

What is it, that brings forth
such visuals?

I can only say
for me
it is the discord
running
along the spine of my thoughts

The discord of
you
not being here

Just another shade of sleep

Pittering it sings
its tiny popcorn popping song

It draws my attention
as sunshine blasts through each drop
to brighten and lengthen the white sunset

Looking to the left
I see a blue of desire
and a grey suffocation

In the middle distance
there is the mist of overwhelm
edging closer to my window

I look once more to the left
and see the blue is miserable
a failed blue, a blue unwanted
a blue neglected

There above now
are the masters of conceal
dark, rapid and unconscious
of blue
and blue is now just another shade
of sleep.

Silence as the rain stops
the mist clears
the birds sing
and even the masters change their hue
and lo, there in the distance
a field of green brighter than spring’s fashion
courting the eye
but blue, she sleeps fatigued
by her unconsummated desires.

 

A swarm of sunlight

A swarm of sunlight
from a crack in the fluid grey
strikes the surface

One after the other
each particle of light
stings my eyes

Looking up I see trees bending
as the clouds rush on by
temporarily closing the door

My eyes hold the ghosts
and as the wind whistles its darting song
the swarm returns to burn through

Distance and time
reveals itself in the smallest of moments
when we feel the heat

Maybe the darkness
intensifies the desire
of and for the buzz

That, feeling

right in the pit
curling
a feather with boots and wings

that, feeling
of desire
of a need to compress

tremulous it starts
spreading
wings of springs and glorious things

that, feeling
of apprehension
of a call to unwind

such warmth
rising
calling and falling

that, feeling
of inhibition
of a flavour to inhale

and so release
into the wild
of the evening sky

Ancient Virgin

The last book
found
amongst the littered remains
of a struggled past

a survivor
unread
unopened
an ancient virgin

devouring eyes
pore over

loving fingers
caress

pages flutter
with each delicious
touch

words drip
with each bacchanal
read

Overcome with
saviour’s emotion
the last book
found
crumbles
… crumbles
… … crumbles

no more books
no more pleasure
no more whispers
no more life
no more pain
no more love
no more joy
no more emotion
no more soul
no more words
no more imagination
no more passion
no more feelings
no more death
no more
… no more
… … no more

The last book
lost …

~

This was first posted here on September 5th 2011 (edited)