A poet-philosopher putting head in heavens and heavens in the head
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
When the evening enfolds and tenderly enmesh
I rest upon thy breast as a kid on the leash
There unfolds the dream of the dancing boy
leaving me rasping with childish joy
at the name of what is called love in French amour
