Let my hair rest on your shoulders,
As my skin touches yours,Like fingers fascinated by frosted windows, Etching stories of my desire as a vellum of the gambler’s debts to the men of numbers.
Whispering of all the blue moon’s since the beginning of this Moirai reckoning dipped in each eventide.
Feel the opacity of my hunger for only you in my throaty psalms of names between the desperation of frenzied taste and scented famine.
Empty all the final heedless murmurs just before bodies leave rosettes of love’s liquification on the edges of Aurora’s balmy infancy of beyond any and all of this.
This world is and isn’t ours to hold on to anymore.
Words: M(e.)Twilight Temple Tresses: a6a7
Songs of Seamlessly Stitched Sanity: https://youtu.be/Sn3-1kvv6u4
I believe he holds all his favorite skylines in the recesses of his heart
A safe vibrant, little, large, brilliance given away by his laughter.
So, the clovers rise from beneath the cool earth.
I wait for the roses that grow from his sorrows, his doubts, his overthinking,
his words, his hold, his holy grins….him.
Paint a gypsy caravan on a new canvas. Imbue it with scarlets, ocher, burnt ashes, tangerine, tungsten and copper before you’re done.
A small space that doesn’t take much time cleaning yet expands into a worldwide way home because it’s not the earth any of us belong to just yet.
Write upon fond illusions, scrawling without fail and fear until the difference between the two lines meet like sockets and carpets that electrify everything near.
Facets of button boxes lining gothic metal bodies and other pieces of history that matters only to the roads and dive diners we discover.
Give life to living by making the storyline of hellos that turn into phone conversations about original prints and favorites with strangers almost bypassed in small square spaces.
Unwind the past into strings sparkling with possibilities as scarves soothe the skin of your lips and longing until days explode into riots of verisimilitude gilt of gold and vermillion breathes between tired days of winter and everything in the yonder.
Then knock gently three times before one enters because we must be different with the painters at rest. You have to care for the brushes and oils and liniment and colors to get them to bloom like oceans of wildflowers.
Visions of a comfortable hut with smoke billowed like clouds.
Of a boy in red trying to facet a new kind of door that takes a certain type of dedication,
A intimate intricacy to open.
Favorite gleams of memories,
Puzzle games of stone,
Quietude laced with dying fireflies,
Dreams interlocking with scenes imbibed among sweet treat treasures.
Then the gaze I cannot turn around while I watch with lullaby heart beats that he sings along with but doesn’t feel like he once could.
A Nightsky, all about Formica swirls paying the dues while all I do is remain loyal and lost in the evening dew strewing around the world like this is the place I’d rather have lived with before a botched suicide or two.
Timberlands Tim and his star stride: David Schermann
Creed of the forest fires and the people that set them:
Let’s ride the waves,
Because passion is all we got
Left after all the vanity
Leaves our young daydreams,
at the alter of new beginnings.
While we make tangled webs,
Out of our candied apple nocturnal entities
Like the worshipers of Apollo,
Riding a chariot into Earth’s home star.
May you remember all the desires that left you tired, sleepless, and blue in the current winter in the newly coming year. May you also remember that passion that always drives that young being we all seem to carry and accomplish all those dreams instead of societal resolutions spoken in vain.
And this is my very special reminder to not always do what’s best for you.
I know it’s what I need to hear too.
And oh darling, how sublimely trouble -with your handsome smile that lets slip such hedonistically cabalistic tendencies.
If my lips were to touch yours, maybe I could drain just a bit of you before I feed you too …
Before we both are web wrapped in savage ecstasy of warm skin and bewitchingly intrusive hands.
With a sultry smirk, I whisper a promise -to try not to capture you unless, of course, it’s what you want me to do.
*Note: This lovely is french Canadian. Her work in french is also something to behold.
Sometimes I believe I should apologize
For all those random incantations of me.
But I am reminded each
Are honestly just another rendition of a complex being.
Simply, vibrantly vivid color she needed.
A new woman,
Wearing her newly clipped hair
And becoming whatever she imagined
She could be.
Her mosaic of needs
Hiding so very deep,
Waiting for that perfect key-
All the souls she meets.
Each new birth
Another happy moment
Collected for posterity.
Her prosterity, individually.
And the curse-
Until she meets her harmonic paramour again
In this timeline of history.
That man so profound,
He keeps up with all
Of her foretold destinies.
There are night’s sweetest dreams
Reminding her of the twilight songs
They used to sing.
Her Colorful Sea: KlarEm
The Phantom From The Beginning: The Veils – Lavinia
Your words always rouse such fervor that I remember how to get to that existential mountain on the horizon that is always evading me in this everyday normality . I want you to say them as you place a kiss in between each so I will never forget them my felicitous abettor.
At least crack an eyelid,
Fiery dragon of ardor
For I am tired,
And cold in this retrospection.
I am missing my own warmth,
And in need of your flame.
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
Learn to Live
Life Is Beautiful
It's all about you and me
We are talking about something we know nothing about.
embrace the impossible
"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
(...and some I have)
I’m an artist, an illustrator, a photographer, a tinker, a tailor, a mother, a spy