Not quite live not quite dead

Not quite live not quite dead,

Like an alien, I draw the breath of air.

No more spring for me no more the dawn,

I wring the music as if a stranger in the pawn.

Of those who live and die as if brought to justice.

I sleep on the newspaper,

as on a nocturnal day in these realms of despair and joy!

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The Seance

Your shadow sinks at the open window,

you rise naked to the wind in the room,

as if in a seance there a corpse of fetid flesh,

perfumed, moving towards the roof, upwards!

In a flare of ecstasy

The evening in a flare of ecstasy I close the window

there resting upon the sill is a whiskey intoxicated with sunlight of meadows

You come, pause and reflect upon the social radars

of oneness with the unknown and draw upon the motors

of consciousness to light the bow of a wine cup in my heart

I decide rather to long for the best of valentine day’s chipped tart

and let’s part away with the afternoon into the shadows of the evening

The evening in a flare of ecstasy I close the window.

On a Valentine’s Day

The cupid’s arrow drawing gusts of wind,

ends up in the corner of my wing.

I hasten to listen to the echo of your heart,

on the seas of silence keeping us apart.

The afternoon is never wasted over coffee,

gathering your dull trousers about knees.

The fire of your eyes now almost embers,

I prick again your eyes to light fires.

Riding the purple hue of the hall,

from the shrine of your heart, your cheeks enthrall.

On death

Upon the hand hold on to the wick of light,

till the candle slowly feasts on its height,

Oh! that is what death does to soul,

melts away the earthen bowl.

On a dreary day when all was awake,

you went into darken sleep hardly to remake,

any thing worthy or any fake.

I vow to have you walking and awake,

to remember only the silken route,

taken by the death on to the fortune suite,

where it will align not to any witch or God,

But to say recline here as forever lost.

Death has done what is the magnificent cost,

for the beauty to pass into oblivion,

for ever and ever to lie in recess of the heart open.

Here the love!

Would you shoot the day for the red carpet?

Anymore casting as a maenad would.

The only vista for a desire being

Ambrosia for the soul or for the halcyon don!

Or Donna would you go shooting at the bay,

A blue nun moored to wayward winds!

With your eyes drawing blank ripples on the sea of love

Let’s pass on from a seamless night to another panting

like a storm in the certitude of its vicinity!