Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Behind that telephone pole



Behind that telephone pole
I see the fading blue
It is 9:24 pm and the horizon
mirrors its summer orange on
the grey prancing clouds

Zoom back and the old neighbor
treads calmly by
holding an AM radio
close to his right ear
An ear
that has heard a million voices
and has seen too many faces

Behind that telephone pole
The wind, cool, picks up now
through my hair they brush rhymes
of laughter forgotten melodies
of hymns chanting
from the sacred ancient land
they call my home

Behind that telephone pole
It gets dimmer while the lamppost
turns on a jet plane slashes
the evening tone and a swept crescendo
flies you to an ovoid sphere
of expired dreams and extinguished libido

Behind that telephone pole

Monday, May 28, 2018

Fountainhead


      I do not know
how to explain
to you
My heart
My finger
& my core
as it beats flushing
Away
from my existence
toward onward march Johnnie march
 tell me why
your teacher was so kind
when in her arms
Things disappeared
into dark mornings
as the wind of total oblivion
cannot conquer my sprite
for blood will reignite
the songs & hymns
into prayers
merrily merrily
Life is not a dream

9-5-2018

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Katyonak thrill (farewell my muse)






















A glare in her stare
Wakes me up from my bed
A stare free to care
Thinking about everything she had said

A scent of her skin
Remains behind in the air
A vein stretched to my chin
A temptation pending to dare

Her subtle flirtation
Turns to a rapid anticipation
A touch of her flesh
A yearn a desire afresh

A finger in the snow
A caress on her body
A patience for her flow
A chance to hear her melody

Cold bed warm thoughts
Her face is changing
Brown eyes engulfing
Slender weight inviting

A comfortable gesture
A hug to remember
As the daylight rises
With her aura surprises



Sunday, March 11, 2018

A poe aime


The title is Philip’s suggestion
That is what makes it a contraption
A surge or a possible explosion
Ideas & thoughts in profusion

In a cast of many apparitions
We see the darkness & his sister madness
Bodies of cats eyes nine lives
Hang across his sky of boldness

In endless screams for Lenore or Madeline
Our houses squeak our nerves are fine
Rage & hidden desire calls for lust
On this snowy night we reclaim or bust

His dreams within our dreams slumber
They fester in our brains & cumber
A reality copies from the imagination
A psychosis comes from its stimulation

Small things of a Poe aime
His spirit a rampart for viable commitment
Ligea or ellenora knock his heaven’s door
His red death will remain for ever more!

Saturday, February 3, 2018

A Forgotten Gift














Belonging seeks assistance
Refusing loneliness convictus
Escaping future thoughts restricted
Arrested by past memories conflicted
Turning self-loathing a present resistance
Harassed by nature succumbed by time
Extinguished all in one flush of respiration

Monday, December 11, 2017

Late Knéfé


The chest is exhausted from the sativa suit he wore the other night. A body in fatigue avec slow breath. Alcohol blood stains the kidney stones purple. A bacterial infection also comes from stardust. Fester Saturday seems quite holy. A brother fills up a cup of jasmine only to smoke another ghost sensibly. Flushed in sugar syrup sesame cheese. A brunch considered occasional. Far from the notion of home the whistle blows jazzy trumpet rhythm mellow. Reebok rubber stains the parquet of autumn. A familiar taste of haagendazs chocolate fuels hope. She takes off her robe gracefully in early November until chills prick the tender pink skin of a winter approaching.


27.10.17

Monday, November 13, 2017

the visitor












They call it planetary
It is utterly ordinary
Posthumans or replicants
Does it matter?

French talk blade runner
Sci-fi noir or a dystopia
on this cold October midday?
An exhausted shadow
Lurks in his inner langue

Le nuage moderne
Ces’t une image cosmique
Sans forme et sans periode
Une etoile fillante en plein air
Elle coupe le ciel docile
Avec la force d’amour
Qui provoque la vie ou le vide
Je ne sais quoi

Ces choses sentimentales
Ils construisent un espace de rien
Mais encore des images qui hantent

Et qui traversent le temps sublime

ZS 31-10-17