Mots-Passants.

Bagatelle No. 25

Right-hand corner, berry tree
You came out of a shadow far away from me
Bushy eyebrows, mocking smile
Pulling my hair and swearing was futile.

Until the sounds of black and white
Made my whole body alight
As your eyes slowly disappeared
Under some beauty that I feared.

You were guilty of my cries
And I was guilty of your lies
Pushing you away from them, closer to me
Feel my thoughts and words scream unconsciously.

We were unexpected matching bodies
Making up words in hidden alleys
And you once asked to hold my hand
A secret no one could understand.

But we were broken one last time
When they hissed away at the crime
When we wanted the unwantable
When we rejected the possible.

I was a little white goat without a name
And I hated you with all my heart.

GOING AWAY MEMENTO.

I just wanted to say…

A thousand apologies
As much as we love vodka shots
AA batteries are not included.
They say refreshers are now a bribe.

I thought my lips were a bit sore this morning
But now the drought is over,
And I’m down for whatever.
Physically move him over there!
I don’t want you to be tamed either.

Bit o’cyclin’ and hula hoopin’
And some devostated fruit cakes
Romantic dinner for three
Four AM swimming escapades
One last night cap of brandy.

Turn around…
Take a deep breath and off you go!
There’s no want in these fingers
Yet I throw a decent punch.
No, no, stop the car I’m stuck!

Look at those triumphant bastards
Realising that it really is the end
As I walk away with a bang.

INDENTATION WITHOUT IDENTIFICATION.

I have wondered down wooden stairs
Through the promise of a seeing glass
And out I came a new born man
Without a hint of suffered past
To linger on or hold onto
Until dusk.

I have felt the grass beneath my feet
Between my fingers, over my skin
And the ripples of a wounded lake
Reflected in my sunlit eyes
While the majestic golden clock
Struck one.

I have forgotten certain faces
Yet others will always remain
Glued to the soft walls of my mind
Fragile cocoons of blooming souvenirs
Ready to set sail until the
Very end.

And I will never and forever be recognised
as the King of Wishful Thinking.

Dammit I’m Mad - Demetri Martin

Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.

Le Corbeau et Le Renard - Jean de La Fontaine.

Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché,
Tenait en son bec un fromage.
Maître Renard, par l’odeur alléché,
Lui tint à peu près ce langage :
“Hé ! bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau.
Que vous êtes joli ! que vous me semblez beau !
Sans mentir, si votre ramage
Se rapporte à votre plumage,
Vous êtes le Phénix des hôtes de ces bois. “
A ces mots le Corbeau ne se sent pas de joie ;
Et pour montrer sa belle voix,
Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie.
Le Renard s’en saisit, et dit : “Mon bon Monsieur,
Apprenez que tout flatteur
Vit aux dépens de celui qui l’écoute :
Cette leçon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute. “
Le Corbeau, honteux et confus,
Jura, mais un peu tard, qu’on ne l’y prendrait plus.

Vocation - Carol Rumens.

Is it poetry I’m after at those moments when
I must clothe your hands in mine or comfort your shoulders
—so bare and neglected sometimes when we wake—
or press your mouth to taste its uncurling flower?
Is that which seems so fleshly and truthful merely
a twisted track into words, a way to leave you
for your image? Art is tempting, a colorful
infidelity with the self, and doubly feigning
when what is repossessed secretly by one
was made by two. And I wish I could pour a poetry-vodka
into twin glasses we’d gulp unanimously
(“I poison myself for your health” the appropriate toast)
but only a poet would have acquired the taste
for such a strange distillation; you’d never warm
to heavy-petting dactyls, the squeak and creak
from locked, suburban stanzas. And so my fingers,
dancing alone, are less than content. They perceive
how they have clung to moral adolescence.
Their vocation now could be simply to talk to your skin,
to take you at kissing-time; later, to close your eyes
by stroking the lashes lightly over cheekbones
flushed with some high, bright, childish fever, and so
write the poem in the touch-shapes of darkness
and let it end there … They are on the tip of trusting
this silent, greyish room, its astonishing view
fading from metaphor to the life with you.

WILD ASPARAGUS.

Blood runs
Eyes burn
Hearts beat
Smiles grow
Jaws break
Heads roll.

Swallow the unconscious numbing joy and let the adrenaline flow

As we are blinded by the night
By its flashing
Enticing
Ever glowing lights,
Infinite embrace
Aphrodisiac.

See the incarcerated mind
Run astray
Feel the cool kiss of the air
On your skin
Smell the wet leaves of the trees
Everywhere
Taste the rhythm of your soul
On your tongue.

Jumping from toe to toe
Shouting at the skies
Running under the rain
Give me your lip to bite
Not a single tear in sight.
Let us hold on, just once
To the beauty of these lies.

A body in slow motion
Stripped bare of all inhibition
Echoes of truth
And blissful sensation.

Pain au Lait.

I wish I could hide under tables like I did before
Patiently waiting for the screams to be forgot
Creating new worlds in the corners of my brain
Fragile obstacles against the Fear of Pain.

The sweetness of their words
And all the kisses in the world
And the most beautiful embrace
Cannot burst open the lump in my throat,
Yet the silent mess of my tiny room
Slowly attacks the remains of my strength.

Yesterday I tried to only allow myself two,
But down the back of my hand another dropped
Hitting the ground with an empty sound.

I have forgotten how to dream within the boundaries of Reality.