Inamorato

Sex? Yes I'm familiar with the concept,

But I've barely walked in the room and your fingers part, as though to make way for the skin they want to touch,

But oh, when we kissed we unraveled, unbecoming and becoming, like two rivers in the mouth of the ocean, 

But when we are just bodies stitched together with the thread of need, your eyes still sought mine, 

But we find each other, in crowds and in our private spaces, like roots seek beads of water hidden in stone,

But my mouth knows the lines of your body, all of them, lips mold to your shapes, the hard and the soft of you, 

But your tongue is laced with the heroin of me, like a true addict, taking hit after perilous hit, twirling in the Russian roulette,

But when we move together, we are lighting and thunder; electricity deliciously rippling through water,
But when you are in the depths of me, I surrender, the saffron-red evening sun diving into the open-armed horizon,
But in the music of our urgent whispers of our bodies, I've forgotten the name I've been known by, the number on my street stile,
But I know the auroral scar on the chest of your heart, the callouses on the soles of your feet and the bottom of your soul...through fear, toil and sleep,
But I, you, you and I, we are a symphony, we are melodies of smiles and simpers, whispers and moans, of thoughts and dreams, of hurts and bleeds, of life and life,
But  even when you have left, your love warms the sheets, even as my heart and hopes leave pinned to your shirtsleeves,
But in the ebbing of our pulse, we smile into the curves of each other, we are triumphant, we are ecstatic, we are bathed in sweet sweat and the noiseless sounds of each other's names,
So, no, this isn't sex, not as in just-sex sex, not as in making-love sex, not as in pick-me-up sex....
'US' is a collective noun....

A Song to the Stone

After all, who looks at the primitive rock closely? Who loves him deeply?

when flowers burst forth, dancing, swirling, a palette of provocative perfumes,

when the sprightly spring of nectar-sweet water, gurgles, gushes and merrily sways.

when the vixen sky, distracts with her changing hues, russet-gold to lilac-blue,

when the fruits are bountiful, luscious, juicy,succulent and inviting, is it fair to anyone else?

where the bountiful boughs sigh and moan, as the wind makes love to its emerald leaves,

where the songbird croons with notes of longing to the storm clouds voluptuous with rain, 

where the earth is supple, fertile and virtuous, and bursting forth with buds of life,

After all who looks at the rock, who for his part kept his stony silence,

He submits himself to the rain as she washes over him, eroding bits of him to her lover the earth,

He heroically stands the wind and the storm, to shelter the oblivious delicate of the rose bud's lips, 

He martyrs himself at the altar of the root, breaks down to feed the salt that sugars the fruit, 

But I love him, this rock, this aggregation of time and earth and all encompassing knowing,

I see in him,his nature to take the blistering cold or the callousing heat, 

I see in him all the muted colours he wears, testimony to the centuries cocooned within,

I see in him, how in saying nothing he has absorbed all the magic of the universe,

one thing though, how do you move a rock with just a heart?

The embezzlement of love

I'm a thief, for I steal, without remorse and out of greedy need,

I steal the darkened contours of gazes from your eyes,

I steal the upside down smiles from the corners of Your mystic mouth,

I steal irridiscent thoughts from the cobbled lanes of Your convoluted mind 

I rob the milling crowds of your prepossessing parlance,
I rob the fragrant wind of the chance graze against Your skin,
I rob the stars of your eloquent dreams of their shimmering beauty,
I pillage the rich scent of Your intoxicating sweat, off Your delicious neck,
I pillage the teardrop from Your eye, that elopes with the lines of my mouth,
I pillage the warm breath that You've left In the hollowed darkness of me,
I'm greedy, needy, hungry maybe, also wallowing, sailing, soaring easy,
You, who have no fear of my frightful, all consuming passion,
You who are of the sands of lands and beds of seas,
You who have the impeccable scars and tousled miseries,
I have nothing to give You, nothing to earn You, nothing at all in my heart to house You
I am a thief, and I steal, I rob and I pillage, Your heart, Your body and Your wonderful mind
Knowing, despairing and dreading all the while, You are not mine, never mine. 

Methods of self annihilaion

Of all my vices, the one I nurture, the one I hold to my breast,
the one I cling to in those lustrous hours of the night is this,
This inexorable gravitation to pain, to finger paintings on dusty windows that are tried by rain,
to open wounds, and obdurately calloused souls, to washed out dreams of wide-winged flight,
I wait at the shallow mouth of the throbbing ocean, I pick up what's washed ashore,
Indulge in the lip-biting, blood-sucking, pleasurable pain,
Of broken shards of withered bits, of malnourished smiles,
I lay them out in my lap, like once-proud flowers, ousted from branches,
I weave them together, as they rustle against my fingers, dried and lifeless,
They cut me, they split my skin, I'm sore, so sore
And when I'm done, I see the garland yet undone,
Dead petals in the wisps of my hair, between my teeth, staining my fingers,
So I stand again at the ocean's converging lips, collecting fragmented hopes,
Finding yet again seaweed and brittle bones.... Inexorably hopeful still

Pillow Talk

3 A.M. is a person...
for most part she is bone-crushingly tired,
of how the weary light keeps his distance,
her somnolent face is framed prettily,
by wisps of scintillant, buttermilk-y clouds,
Sometimes she is an oxymoron of tranquil loneliness,
dressed in moonless nights and vapid thoughts,
Yet, there are those rare nights she feels lascivious,
she is attired in mangled bed clothes,
and rich perfume of pleasure-driven sweat,
the music of the post-coital heart beats,
is interspersed with flushed-faced confessions,
He says he loves his noodles soupy,
She says she has lain in puddles of her own blood...
and silence...
See, that's the thing about 3 A.M,
she doesn't ever get to be happy.

Upchuck

So you tell me that my love is like the first rain in years,
to wash upon the thirsty sands of the desert,
It reminds me of the time I went without food for three days,
and then gorged my self on a rich, meaty meal on the fourth,
Instead of relishing the nutrition, within minutes i was doubled over, sick
So here I am, waiting to be thrown up.. from the innards of your desert. 

Meaningless songs of meaningful love

It is like breaking the surface of water, 

Coming up for AIR,

That your heart is still tender with love, 

it's so very rare,

I rave and i rant and i prattle on,

to hearten you with words of love,

But sometimes you think that its not me,

That it's just a well-rehearsed soliloquy.

Perception.... 

The night sky is beautiful, 
The seemingly zephyrous clouds seemingly caress the luminous moon, 
Against a velveteen, star-spangled sky, they seem to be suspended in a tender embrace 
But, the moon knows he has craters that time cannot heal, 
And, the cloud knows shes full of effete rain that shall not fall, 
And, they both know that there is a great distance between them, 
That neither can or shall traverse,
between them, they know that this is the way of the world...