Total Pageviews

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Curve 4



With her illustrious breasts of violets and a sugar tree on her shores
the knowledge of  her body is an end in itself, beyond which life has nothing to offer.
But what diamond eye can with impunity fix itself upon a beautiful woman—
a beautiful queen?
Amazing eyes where love has made his nest
I turn to you again.


Curve 3

Under the designer label satin of dawn, the color of summer when one closes one’s eyes
it was her true self I saw, in her original nudity, among gardens and tortures—blood and flowers—

 her long oiled body gleaming in the shadows like a sleeping  
                                                                               python.
Tresses of pearls were fastened to her temples, and fell to the corners of her mouth
           which was rosy as a half-open pomegranate. 
                      Our blood, enamored of its tyrant

                               flows for the eternal swarming of desire.

Curve 2

 

The weight of a petal has changed the face of the world and made it ours.
Above all this queen of Byzantium whose eyes reach so far above ultramarine,
so lovely fair that what seemed fair in all the world seemed now mean,


 


stood before me like a rainbow braided within some storm, more beautiful than Venus arising to the world
and scattering all round the iridescent fire of her blond loveliness.

Imagine a whipped cream dream with a nuclear-powered heart and blood of sunfire in her blue veins,

all her traits combined in a Raphaelesque harmony by the meeting of curves.

Thus was the clay made worthy once of the full animal perfection.



Curve 1


     The seated  female  figure on the  right is  classic,
unmistakable Rubens, a voluptuous body of very
white  flesh  and  a magnificent  face.   The  total
effect  is perfection, an ideal combination of real-
istic details and abstract forms. Her ice-blue eyes
glance  at  me  furtively  from  the  two  apertures
in her gold-encrusted fire opal face, united  by one
faultless  line  with a straight  nose finely  chiseled
as a cameo. Resembling the  love-child of a Burmese
princess  and  a  hammerhead shark, she  is  somehow
astonishingly  beautiful. Over and over  when she  sleeps
the butterfly's imprisoned in  her dreams; for there she was
fashioned  who turns  the  key  to open the supreme love. It is
unlikely that we ever will know what the artist meant to convey.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Mayfair

     What if? What then?

Icebergs follow icebergs, Kalishnikovs. Oil deck. Teal flames
and the nylons peel off.
The stupidity of being 
never felt so right.
White clouds are precious now
outnumbered as they are.
Buttered pearl. Tinctured parrot. Fire opal
cry to me
Rebuild the masterpiece. Why be afraid?

Most days are quiet at their best
empty as Cleveland in the wind,
fumes glassing from the bus’s tubes,
friendly folks with sausages and wine.
You can't help hear a plaintive song
too weird for mass consumption,
grow enamored
and daydream the rain
and daydream
the symmetry to be tomorrow too. 

     In. On. Allover. Forever.
Suspicious of my own desire
I take revolution with my tea,
abdicate thought to a worshiping eye,

swear to turn away from dirty voices
(how they talk like an addiction)

Mute the chatter Find the center Blow the fires down.

Tugboats camellias violins next.

     As evolutions move swiftly I see the broken hand pushing me outward
to the back of the line
thinking the fading
emerge and then fade,
so the emergent will fall.

But they often advance.
Every motion, like a game of chance
to influence by pretty visions,
confounds control. No matter
the quality of your wonder,
speak of beauty and watch the stares, alarmed,
you weirdo.

Other eyes kill.
as the camera’s casinos intimidate fortune,
elements moving in key with a purpose
with no intention to serve us.
Scrape past in a smile to some extreme new yes
and the streets get treacherous
like indices racing toward a precipitous dip
on the way to obscurity and beyond

on the way to red-light eyes,
inflated lives moving in McMotion,
tyrants and oligarchs, invisible waiting;
glaciers like midnight
slowly sleeping their way
toward awakening valleys.

    With something approaching grace, I fall, I fall.
It's mostly repetition
for those outside extraordinary realms. Us inbetween
middle-class marsupials

ride that tremendous bridge in the sunrise
to the imperial rainbow in the open air
feeling the power of thick-again mystery
in every perplexion sent from above. Feel too
tyrants and oligarchs
invisible, waiting,
glaciers like midnight, honeysuckle, and moonlight.
Oxytocin, hibscus days.
Chalk dust. Clouds of diamonds in October sunsets.
The warmth of home.
The pain of home.

A spiral staircase docks me on its genome.
Rebuild the masterpiece. Why be afraid?

     As petals of conversation
drop here and ere,
laws reveal meaning
in crushed-up codes—a thicket language
the X’s, A’s and V's
of airport screens,
gnashing teeth at the stress of propulsion,
imitate being before silence is dream.
Mute the chatter Find the center Blow the fire down

Wherever I go I find love still consuming me.
As defensive as holy I was sure I was useless,
a poet a tumor a dodo
a system to myself.

Something faster beckons
Take me take me take me.
To honeysuckle and moonlight
to oxytocin and hibiscus days
to influence by pretty visions
killing eyes mortgaging today.

     Take tonight. 1/31st of May, cool marine air
loaded like belugas
with every toxin the currents carry in,
I see children, heads hemorrhaging delicious chemicals.

Primarily what applies to them is what they like.
Chalk dust. Clouds of diamonds in October sunsets,
toxins carried by the currents deep within.

For example of nothing, observe:
Human life as mineral deposit--
something got churned out by Earth
wading through carnival fog,
searching the grass for invisible coins,
stuck by the arches at nine o’ rock high,
broadcast honchos rising them high
to busts look like agony—
dope stare, pleading wound of mouth,
ecstasy followed with shame
like old men hiding back
in their hospital gowns.
As easy as paradise, I stir the dream.
Oxytocin. Hibiscus days.
Moonbeams. Freakshow. Epiphany. Next.
There you are.
A cipher, a dodo, a dream, a system to yourself

as moths in the halo of city blue
start letting loll tongues that lick away the moon,
lovely as they go
as dreams of those
who want something bad badly—
fat drugs love disaster desire destruction perfection it all.
I swore to turn away from dirty voices:
soap opera love. Curtains raging at 3 a.m.

Tugboats. Camellias. Violins. Next.
A woman you visit when the robins find Spring.

     Some nights the spotlight shines
like you're Random Miss Universe, 2010.
Others, in darkness,
you're searching the grass for invisible coins.
And the whole human shebang dusts off its lectures 
like a sitcom professing to KNOW.
The rules of this game. 
Pirates get ransom. Drug lords get paid. Civilians drop off. 
The apse of the night gets ripped by the motorcycle.
Nylon peels, butter pearls,
tugboats, hibiscus, heart attack, next.
Then Spring, the final icicle.

O nights of the youth with the world on a string,
I have no advice cuz it's all 50/50
and I live on the fringe
of sustainable things.
Burn these words quickly and then burn your own.
Today is all gone; you deserve incredible flings.

Stir the dream, easy as paradise.
See what to believe when the robins take wing.

The weather tomorrow only lasts while it lasts 
like pink sidewalks in the Spring.