Abi

It is not the love of the father

That beckons me

It is the defeat of his soul

As it soars over cloud #9

It is unreachable when it has cut

All its ties with the bloodline

Except

With those that feed him charity

To survive

Narcissistic you tell me since I was young

& in every hour of need

He is not to be found

For it hides in the crevices of the bleeding heart

Only to come out

When it needs pennies for its selfish throbbing

Imagine that you are fatherless

Throw away your paternal burdens

For you do not look anything like him

Even though you have his nose and acrobatic charisma

12.1.19

Two icedcaps to go

Motion sickness to gravity

when a heart in the clouds

feeds on sweet breath

between sharing lower lips

and tender flesh

Words have to rest a while

as moist curiosity

takes a chance to twirl 

in seconds divine

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

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

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

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!

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

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

Dove White

A final reminder of your smell

lies in what remains of this bar of soap

that has melted time and passion

into its soft mediterranean skin

Gushing

vanilla-eucalyptus

A stimulating incense triggers

this infusion of jojoba kisses

missed

A token of its moist & careless seduction

steams these bathroom walls once inhibited

Now nostalgic

to its washed away existence

A final reminder of your smile

lies in what remains of this bit of soap

that has scrubbed off lies & deceit

while it has nourished your appetite

for squander & wanderlust

a transient reminder a bubble                          a wet reminiscence  

Newton Saturday

No control over your center

A forward motion in infinity

Light a constant speed rushing

Seldom relative to your emotion

Mass creates unnoticed tension

Shifting your space and time

Continuum

Trapped in a black hole

In a web of altered conception

We drown.

Just because

I write because I dream

I dream because it’s my nature

To capture a picture -- a perception

When inspiration comes in letters warm

Flood colors and words that storm

A journey into the unreal

A cosmos of a transient appeal

I write because I dream

I dream because I like to phase out

And blow like a light zephyr in early springtime

And watch myself cool off

Slow down the friction before you catch fire

Before you burn into ashes of forgotten desire

Without answers that make any sense

I write because I dream

It is my personal space to beam

Out ---annoying and troubling thoughts

as the mind rushes into knots

When loneliness has been put to the test

And friendship has returned to its nest

& love once again has been chosen to rest

I write just because... 

Z.S. 6-7-17