Emotional stealth.
Long black waves
beat at the rocks
With their grey white cusps
Foaming and angry.
Behind the thick glass
Of the train window,
Stung with rain,
And inside my dark hood
I sit safe in the
Eye of the storm.
So
While the wind moans
And trys vehemently to
Blow out all the candles
We lit last night in the
Garden and our inebriated state,
I dream desperately
Of freckles and fingertips.
What to do
with a single yellow rose
if you have no one
to give it to?
©BRussell
Your eyes are roses.
All that red blossoms and grows.
The long green stems stretch back far,
curling through the gaps in your skull
and out your nasal passages.
The thorns that stick in my hands
are long and sharp and matted
with the blood of those
that have come before.
Your teeth flash
black and green.
Your smile sickens.
I reflect on how I am
somewhat a gardener,
as I prune back the bitterness.
Your hair is a tangle of weeds
which I delicately remove,
my hands growing red and
itchy with their juices.
Your roots are thick and strong.
They stretch deep. The problem is
you’ve implanted yourself
in the shadow of a great
weeping willow on the
darker side of the garden.
Beside a wall that limits and abuses.
You need to be brought out
into the sun of summer days,
I intend to relocate you to a
nice spot, beside the chrysanthemums
and my well kept lawn,
in the warmer part of the
garden and my heart.
Your open lips I have
encountered of a night
when, dulled and nulled
by phosphorous light,
we may have danced.
I cannot be sure
for eyes were blinded,
memory poor.
I entered this dream
like a room without door,
the ceiling all stars
and a blackened wood floor.
A small gentle mouse
with some grays in his coat
breathed his last gentle breath
and opened his throat.
And I knew then that life
would be always like this:
that the ones you had loved
would be the ones you would miss.
So i steeled myself
to the darkened abyss
and settled my soul
in your warm, twisted kiss.
With all the world
buzzing and twirling around
beneath a complacent sky
while I lie,
summer skinned,
the cool breeze
blowing gently
on my stubborn nipples.
In a field of watermelons
and tall grass,
right in the middle,
sits a little girl
with curly flaxen hair
and little red rounded cheeks,
smiling a somewhat toothed grin
spitting seeds into a wide meadow pond
and laughing.
Laughing like she knows the world.
In the branches of the trees
of the dark forrest that overlooks the meadow,
the watermelon field,
little birds,
bright blues and reds,
twitter and fling themselves
from twig to twig.
Down below
the eyes of dark things watch.
Thick salivating tongues
red as blood.
But at the sun’s rays they hish and turn away.
At this lightness,
this ease of tone,
they screw their eyes up and their claws in
and retreat.
By the pond the little girl
has begun to dance
to music that only she seems to hear.
And over the brow of a hill
her mother’s voice comes seeping
in warm amber tones,
lilting roundedly and softly on the breeze.
The girl, hearing her mother’s voice,
turns homewards
running her hand through the grass as she goes,
as the light turns to golden twilight.
And as the night approaches,
in slow smooth strides,
and far away in the sky
the stars link arms and gaze down
on the little girls closing eyes,
her sleepy smile.
Can’t you see all this love?
-Regina Spektor
Life is made up
of moments.
Specks of your life and mine
and his and hers
flying about like
dandelion seeds.
So take this one,
softly in the palm of your hand
and set it aside
saved up.
Take this one moment
and sit with me
aside the lit wick
of a new candle
and we’ll wait till it passes.
I strode out
in the night
to cut down a young spruce
and steal its moonlit heart.
The snow glinted
and my axe-edge keen.
Tearing away at bark skin
like a ravenous dog.
I do not know how
to use an axe.
In long folds it came away.
And i lifted the heart of the young man
to the sky
where it hung
and bled.
Each of my careful footsteps back
was stained red with
my betrayal.
Each of my tears frozen
hard and stinging my cheeks.
Life is a concrete sex embrace
wild with stars.
A blind secret,
dark as holes in the sky.
Stiff. Yesterday’s decayed women.
Free from joy and desire;
Almost always love rots men’s hearts
as only it can.
It is the colour of the young.
Pierce me. Bleed me. Moist with your kiss.
Warm. Cold. Think. Kill. Die.
But dazzle my peace,
WE WERE BORN!
That crunch and
thud,
like a head being laid
on a concrete pillow
at a million miles an hour.
Still so vivid,
those eyes,
appearing at my right headlamp,
large and dolorous
and on fire.
My licence plate was
kicked clear
across the road,
which was strewn fast with shreds
of my bumper, the crumpled
impact zone.
Blood turns thick and sticky
quick on a night like this.
It smears dishevelled
as Persephone’s kisses.
Her rich dark mealy lipstain.
And I drove on into the night
a little colder for our encounter.
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