Posts Tagged ‘passion’

The two of them, snakes
as thick and muscular as
a grown man’s leg
are either fighting to their deaths
or mating. They appear to be
either beasts or
swans as their bellies
slash the ground.

I see my skin in their skin.
Tiny scales that writhe
with an armada of 1000 war ships
underneath the surface
and in the shimmering of
there scales an entire
opera dedicated to
their coiled helix dance.
One the devil, both the devil,
it made little difference to them.
To sell your soul to him
to buy her soul
to smuggle her away
by the command of God
or by ancient wisdom.

To seduce, to entice,
to be the snake
as I lick my lips
and demand you show
me the shores
of another world
where the incoming waves
are like lines on a bathtub.
I pluck away the one on top,
the aggressor, and in my family’s garden
I watched the other flee. In my hand is
the Satan or the snake, the tempter
or a single strand of medusa’s hair.
I want it to offer me escape
an escape to the world,
either with demonic magic
or human venom.

Instead I let it chase its lover
and turn to my freckled vellum.
On its smooth surface is recorded
this same story too many times.

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Her Eyes
There is a green pasture in Italy
littered with Vestal columns
-broken and profane
they point back to a community
that no longer remains.

That greenness surrounds obsidian
with its verdant Sylvan bloom
with more authority than kings or even Gods.
The center of this garden recalls a deeper doom:
A rock from which flight is impossible
The child of Tarpeia’s womb.

And when she blinks poetry is silenced.

Her Skin
There is Dresden porcelain in her skin
forged from Augustus’ private stock
of the cleanest white and softest soft.
Her heart beats shyly within –
I trace the master sculpture with an eye
if not a hand. A brief passing by
to sooth the conquering demand.

When we touch, she averts her eyes.

Her Lips
She never blows bubbles but
She chews cinnamon gum
So her words come fromVolcanal.
It is a brief reminder that she is ancient
and naked somewhere under there.
Sometimes she sings to the delight of the world
and her heart pours from her mouth
with the molten golden words.

She doesn’t smoke because it gives you wrinkles.

Her Hands
Her hands have the curious habit
of touching everything –
They are constant vigilant explorers
searching for any light
to break the thick dense fog
of unimaginative reality
that clouds her sight.
They are so cold even in summer
that I can only imagine they search
for some towering lighthouse
to steal some warmth.
Ten tiny promethean digits
that can tickle ivory or children.

She plays with her gold ring when she’s nervous.

And could you imagine that
Heraclitean furnace at her core.
The way she worries that it
burns out of control.
She is anxious often but never sad
like energy itself
and to look at her you would never
understand how she couldn’t adore
the way she laughs uncontrollably,
sighs absent-mindedly or
snores only when she sleeps alone
and presses her pillow so tightly to her face.

She prefers the company of humans.

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