It Ruptures

I’m terrified, and ever for love, an oval face. She lives immortal,

ever for gothic, to convulse magic. I die a tear, to flog a soul, to

mangle flesh. It’s curves, and ever seduction, a year in Rome.

We flip it mental, to writhe a dream, to color flaws. I see her to

trick death, to mingle life, sipping a Daiquiri. I inhale deeply,

to argue pigmentation, hoping for beyond. It’s us, skipping

scruples, to vet a nightmare. It’s us, cringing light, infected with

darkness. She’s clever, ever for contract, to rapture an afterlife.

I joy—for uneven, to ignore tactics. I’m passive for aggressive,

wrestling—finger to a navel. I’m drizzling, ever a heart, a

partial idiot. Its crayon tears, and featured scars, bedded in one

session. We nestle, ever with scenes, to remember a first kiss.

I was there, a total self, a mystic leaf. We leapt for time, a tender

rose, a sheer delight. I love it to speak, a simple task, masked in

visions. It’s something antique; and biblic caves, to touch her

thigh. I wrote a legend, a frontal pose, to read every line. We

paused, to act a fever, a militia of cries. I mourned an eyelash, to

cast a wish, and trim split ends.    

Sky Texture

I figure pressure, to lack a caveat, where anger simmers.

            Push him, to induce it, a wealth of fireballs.

            Call him violent. Prick to find it. Never retreat!

            But I’m a soul, fraught with love. I’m rich in

            nectar, optimistic, and a tad bit negative. I see a

            human, spinning woes, veiled in a title. We

            mingle like thieves, friendly to a point, until the

            right heist.

I fall, to pressure a keystone, found in Bhakti. I clear it out

in rivers, to strike a memory, to feel a windfall. Is it

thunderbolts, a daydream star, lost in resilience? It’s a

conclave, to peer inwardly, to find Namaste. Am I to speak;

from point to point; to explain the obvious? How often?—

maybe weekly, if not monthly, to force it open. Is this the

vest approach?—even a kernel, or better a landmark?

            Is it one on one, stiffly aware, a mallet for a fist? I

            ask mirrors, to ponder wickedly, where emotion

clouds the weather. He’s smart, but not enough.

He’s bright, but darkened. He’s resilient, but how

far? I fall into darkness, a willing breath, to hear

for silence. I imbue a force, to capture essence, to

feel her blessing. It’s more for growth, a silent

field. We rain a burdened heart, to inhale a small

success. I laugh, somewhere gone, to know her ways.

Is it illusion, to believe it’s not personal? I’m dusky, ever

flung, to read it as acidic. This is pain, a need to ponder, to

repaint portraits. I feel it, African hopes, for violet stars.

A jar is filled, with the richest jam, plus, aqua dreams. I’m

eating toast, to reckon a gambit, sipping coffee. It’s a

brimming psyche, fleeing a forest, where trees follow closely.

Its religion, marooned dearly, to flood a vessel. Its heartache,

and French wine carpet, to flap for wings. Plus, it’s me, a

mantic wind, to manage something a breath.  

Precious Swan

We love you like sunrays, to feel for residue, a dauntless love.

Its esoteric, to journey your soul, gripping bibelots. I conjure

for spacecrafts, to soar for Mars, to hear for heartbeats. I’m

there, love—ever sidereal, as gravid as bankruptcy. I’m

reticent, to feel you see, the heights of affliction. Feel for

wisdom, a dreamy-eyed girl, to raffle affliction. We love you

like pagans, a feeling rapid, to sprinkle sun-chills. Life is

nectar, a sweven star, as cozen as deceit. We wist a star, sipping

orange juice, to meditate habits. It’s a cold shadow, to echo

rights—to an empty room. I drift a tornado, semi-detached,

to stream philosophies. Its vow to love—a nonplus touch—a

soul to screech. We live it, if only a fantast, to channel phantoms.

It’s you, a marbled stone, a fleet of ancient rites. I write it—to

feel it—searching for a picture. We love you like Wiccans, to

drill for voltage, a gallery of sights. It’s gray, a padlock affair,

to scream for love. I watch it, a steaming teapot, too warm to

touch; so more for towels, a quasi-rapture, something pictureless.

We love you, despite for grays, as crazed as vampires.  

Feeling of a Swan

The eye of an eagle, to drift your zone, to float through time.

I love you like crazy, to hear brown eyes, and ponder hazel.

I’m frantic a heart, and ever a soul, sore for contemplation.

We see for flame, to die a Sensei, a white diamond. Mother

feels it, to churn a fever, cosmic in pain. It was ever a

dream, as rustic as love, to unpack marbles. I love you like

ribbons, to live success, pinning a young swan. It’s want

and rain, even tai chi, to wreck for darkness. I gave for rights,

to live through hells, as vivid as collisions. Only for love,

and seven tears, to give life’s blood. I’m conscience, love—

to fault a soul, breaking for a mirror. So probe the karmic,

to dig for deep, a banquet of bodhi eyes. Wisdom elopes, to

meet with love, stopping at a payphone; for mother cries, to

grip a gown, bleeding knowledge. I feel it low, a dogwood

grime, heading downward. It’s a yogic high, the tilt of love,

to ponder your soul. We cry it purple, as royal as gourmet,

drifting a hailstorm. Have you seen it, a birthstone, and Asian

cries. We love you like breath, a gesture soft, to feel for soul.

   

Furnace Harp

Is it I that speaks, in need of a Sensei, to teach for kung fu? I

see bulbous eyes, to reach for tai chi, a village in mind.

We gather signs, from bodhisattvas, in-love with images.

Dakini embodies soul, to trample composure, a woman twice

my chi. I venture Tibet, to meet Tara, while listening to

geishas. We read Poe, to move to Frost, pausing at Brown.

Nights are yearning  fire, an infinite flame, akin to dharani.    

I’m more illusions, for cost of life, careful at a bridge. We

garner gold, to treasure glens, geared for gathering gems.

We perish a shoji screen, peering to never see, to hunger

for contours. Its life a torch, a flaming fever, featured in

fractions. I die a voice, a violet veil, cultured in mischief.

We pose as strangers, ever detached, to turn compassion. I

feel it in Three D, seated on an elephant, younger in my years.

It’s ever a mantra, a season pash, to tiptoe symbols. She’s

midday swirls, for afternoon woes, a midnight rain. So more

upaya, to ward off guile, a tactic for mind; for love is kaya,

ever for art, an arrow traveling afar. We live it, to forge a

fortress, to cure a famine.

   

Water

She’s cloaked, to fuse a soul. I sprinkle stardust, to

            form a contour. She peers deeply, and shadowed dearly.

            We spin it numb, a friend of liquor. I cry, “Compass,”

            to furnace a temple. We laugh through rain, unbound

            sickly. Such is nightfall, a tornado’s love. We’re

            strangers, ever to tug, to shun a storm. I listen, the

            fairest beauty, a grackle’s high. There’s a flagon, screaming

            names, to verse ‘til queen. Chess is life, to move a castle,

            ever a gambit. I love her like healthcare, to feel façade.

            We wrestle pain, a heart to ache. (Art is mystic, a cryptic

style, unto seaquakes.)

I cringe—ever a smile, to touch for sorrow. I feel it hurts, to love

a soul, unto twilight; but ever a verse, to grip for moons, unto

folklore. We till this way, ever cloud-born, to cater to love. Is it

more, an inner gut, pushing an opus? I ask—looking backwards,

to drift through years. I swoon, to feel a voice, found in lyrics.

Love is grey, a touchless face, racing to faceless.

            It’s more a dream, an hour of kef, streaming through magic.

            I hear it, speeding windmills, as gravid as pressure. It’s

            ever hectic, a small inlet, water for a mystic.  

Pressure Flown

It’s turning, to pivot a pendulum—my life. I wanted structure,

to love this angst, and ever vanish. She kisses with poison,

an art with Guinness, to harness daylight. I’m garden souls, and

prone to folly, streaming Gaga. Its lethal, to nourish venom,

to live the Donovan’s. We perish—nine lives, to love one soul.

Tell it purple, to polish mirrors, to arouse coffins. I held it, a

beating heart, to purchase Prada; and Lana sang, emitting

passion, three souls in. I cry it brown, for colored souls, a

wealth

of diamonds; and dear for God, the beauty of love, a leather volt.

Bells are ringing, to sense a vault, ever this life. We

perish—torn immortal, athirst her soul. Its gothic rites,

and pudding pie, and blueberry verses. I sought earth, a

bottle of chi, finally uncaged. It’s more an edge, to

touch for something, even a novelty. I sew a seam, partly

stressed, to chisel rain. So more for hedges, in Morse

code,

and never challenged. Indeed, to carve oak,

an oath in blood, and bleeding numb.   

Holiness

We catch hell to live it;

many opt out, strumming

sickness; a different type

of illness; where they hide

for but a moment.

How to outwit a colony; racing in calmness, cleaving  to

nonchalance?

We breathe to filter flame, to dance a chant, to argue in

seldom. We watch for snails, ever to weep, searching for

stop signs. We grieve, even to wail, to grip a ship. Life is

silent, but ever vocal, to bridge staircases. Our world—is

meditated, a conscious breath; to thrum a heart, or burn

a flare, to listen for strangers. We utter—“No!” to feel a

season…mindful of these things. Love eternal, a pier

within, among the darkness. We till for harvest, to thresh

a kingdom, titled for Namaste. Every cage a zone, an

unspoken tune, to feign as friends. Its joy to pain, to

croon in agony, unless a signal. We stop it, a sore lament,

to wither in anguish. Some are fretful, a broken window,

mourning ‘til dawn. We rage this way, to hear for laughter,

a solemn soul sad. Hands are outstretched, mirrors to

mimic souls, he’s inside out. It becomes fate, a sore

indifference, to guard sanity. We live it, fragile for tattered,

spinning through spiders. We hush it low, to sit in silence,

mindful of these things.  

Lonely Tale

It’s core a sky-fall

to dream your eyes

and crystal shields

racing through fiction.

I love it more, merely a thought, to form illusion. Words are

mnemonic, to spread for wings, to bond for spirits. I know

little, where she appeared, to jog a cradle. Its millpond walks,

and instrumentals, to carry a trestle. Ink becomes holy, an

internal halo, a feeling unborn. We fly, tavern souls, to

embody attitude. So feel for face, to shimmer for face, a love

graced in images.

I love it more, a shaman hug, as vibrant as sunrays. Verbs are

action, to skip a heartbeat, to gaze through circuits. I want for

something, as keen as voyage, a spectrum of love. It’s more a

feeling, ever to intrude, where such is cryptic. I love it like

novels, to sing déjà vu, to outsoar self. We spin, sipping on a

yacht, heavy in thought. She watches, to speak to liquor, a

young saint. Its mere fable, and sable eyes, and cable minds.

We live it lonely, and never to tell, where all is said.

I sprout, a budding tulip, as mystic as yogis; and every tinge, a

whisper soft, as lonely as a crowd. I trek for webs, driven in

illusion, as calm as owls. We pin it silk, to settle for cotton, a

field of debris. I love it for myrtle trees, to sip for liquor, as

gone as a morning kiss. I’m drawn, ever to a soul, speaking ‘til

dawn. Its subtle shivers, to string heartbeats, to sing guitars;

for life awake, a tender sorrow, to live it uncaged.

We grace ambition, at unawares, to a lonely village; and more

to want, a thing unsaid, kneeling for bliss. Its welkin stars, and

unborn rites, feeding a pigeon. The pond is velvet, at least in

sight, where a soul mourns; and more the pain, to gaze and leap,

there for ghosts. I love it in beige, a vessel strong, and able to

cry; and every tress, a holy path, a grace in purple.

Feel it bleed, a passion skating, even to ollie. We leap to birth

wind, even silken waves. I’m there, seeking value, and torn

asunder. I love—and felt to fly, cringing lonely. It’s ever pure,

to know for cures, and cherry plums. We live it, a pendant lock,

praying to grandma; and something dies, a self for old,

grinning through darkness. 

Awaken

I’m somewhere mellow, to crochet a childhood, where

hearts

thump rivers. You’re there, in silken gown, frowning

over

marshmallows. I pitch a chestnut, to receive a gesture,

and

laugh aloud. The stars are dreaming, filled with spirit,

cleaving

to space. We ground coffee beans, lost for creamer,

to use

milk.      I awake, to sweaty palms, a clammy feeling.

     Earth is so

vast, to crawl through midnight, invested in strangers.

I

picture for perfect, as rounded as squares, a bit clumsy.

I fall,

and there you are, chewing on a futon. I reach forward,

and

reappear, filled with furnace. Its ink and graphs, to

chisel an

image, to purchase a brush. The canvas is full, to

sketch the

margins, and focus binoculars. You sing for gladness,

to squelch

for sadness, to witness madness.      I reappear, a tiny

finger,

scratching a cookie. Ants form a pattern, to reap for

raid, an

odor free bullet. Life is pictures, and bright black

colors, plus

a woman saying, “Mommy.” I can hear a chuckle,

barely a

toddler, reaching for saltines. There’s water, and

father’s palm,

sprinkling my scalp. I sneeze, and mother smiles, a

feyic touch.         

Tuffet

Dear Tulip,

Life is yellow, even a pink tuffet. I melt toffee for

cream, buffing a curio. I gander for love, as fey as cupid, as

grey as a first kiss. There’s pressure—for kinetic time, a twinge

of an artist.

She’s sugar plums, a famous pouch, to seal for goddess. 

I wander, to capture love, to carve a torch. We fall, even unto

a cradle, to stare at plastic stars. I remember for color, a critical

baby, where blue is masculine.

            We awaken, tugging upon draperies, resting upon a

tuffet. She sails a fork, to puncture a futon, in a teal two piece.

We grin slightly, to grip for winds, a chest of dreams. There’s

coffee grounds—upon a kitchen floor, where poodles bathe. I

look to disappear, sitting ere a shoji screen.

            She pictures closely, to glance deeply, an hourglass of

particles; for so many parts, to piece for pebbles, a distant self.

We challenge fortune, a wealth of scars, a sky of dust. We love

it, a soul of comets, an unsightly cost.

            We vanish, to absorb a gem, ever embodied.    

Simone

Be for kiss, a stormy weather, upon suede boots. Was it nightly,

even through the morning, a puffy powder? I’m for Adonis, in

want to learn, to tremble at noon. I’m something there, to glare

at Lana, thinking pearls. We disappear, lost in language, to

flicker inanis. How many stories, staring at lights, to love

through grey? It’s broken armoires, and leather sofas, to

ponder goodbyes. I’m bright for presence, to embody spirit,

if only to scrape sorrow. We live it, a life of criminals, to

steal a soul; where wrong is law, and ought is mortal, to drift

a sky-lamp. Was it life, to permeate music, a humble heart? I

venture, to waft through forms, to tiptoe symbols. Its nails

and hair—to sprinkle for holy; where sin is dream, a bedded

cry, to perish through seasons. I’m flogged and dying—to

sprinkle for holy. Its purple kilns, a mellow bass, and a need to

flit and fly. I feel for tempo, to hear it given, a stranger’s love.

I feature—a person laughing—to wedge a fortress. We drift—

ever to float, to kiss a monster. It’s ever this collar, a cello torn,

spinning through beige and brown.   

Inanis (Empty)

Remove the mask, my love. Years have morphed into daylight.

I need more a soul, and sheer amore, to stir a sleeping village.

It’s so precious this sore; and ever epic this daymare. Every

twinge a heartbeat, even a vessel, a tender gripe. I give for

oath, a vacant vow, to love forevermore. It’s vacant a vow, for

love is wounded, an idol at the barricades; but love us more,

through numen nights, a totem of dreams; for love is rich, and

ever vacant, as timeless as harps; so love me less, for love to

blossom, where a soul vows for endless. We drift so gently, as

rabid as music, to flourish with fever. I love for love a dying

love; and more to love a waking love. It’s ever nautic, and

ever noetic, an otic vision. I pain for love, a thetic love, to

gamble love. Nights are iron, and more abyss,—to panic come

daylight. Ghosts are swarming, to beckon souls, the girth of gongs.

So love a waking vow, where love shatters vacant, a torching love;

and what of love, to freely fly, as vacant as full, as rich as icing.

I’m grounded, Love; a love of courage; to fall through love. Its

rites a subtle form, a warm embrace, to love forevermore. 

Madness

I’m vague, a bit opaque, to peer into glass hearts. We run

through fields, nibbling apricots, shielded in madness.

It’s ever forgotten, to love last year, to hear it laughing.

I’m pen to sketch, even dynamite, clawing a mudslide;

and so naïve, to court Sophia, trekking through France.

Its axe to soul, prone for depth, to see her face. We

kneel a shore, to drive for passion, a scarf as blanket. I

pose a life, a world of us, if only a season. Love is sagic, a

temper to cringe, fallin’ for love. We see it, to feel it, a

queasy stomach. I topple, to bare a skeleton, to flood a

liver. We channel so perfect, a mental muscle, a turn of madness.

I love us forbidden, driven to matrimony, to tiptoe brains.

Oh for lungs, to ponder for name, and nearly crucified. I feel

it born, a forgotten love, to wrestle a mirror. We draw for marrow,

to plummet veins, running through a jigsaw. Oh for glory, a

bleeding nose, a mind aflame. We love it, plum to navel, and

hands to heart. We dream it, a fire’s ache, to roam a nightmare.   

I love us more, a frantic puzzle, sawing for pieces. I’m sick and

sore, a waist of hells, to grip for shoulders. We fall to cry,

wrapped

in love, gnawing flesh.  I’m born, to manage her smile, tongue

to ear. Its life, a tattooed ankle, to wiggle a toe. I long for legs,

barely shorn, and arms with peach fuzz. We paint madness, a

perfect affliction, headed for Knots. 

“We All Want Love”

Such dreamy eyes, filled with high school, and mauve pie.

I love you like yesterday, holding a first glance, nervous

and coquettish. We want it, right?—a field of orchids, and

traveling low. I feel you like cuffs, lost for keys, to kiss a

smile. We lilac a dream, to stream sad music, a gentle

sorrow. We dwell there, to become a pretzel, to yell for

life. I shake and fall, a feeling rusty, to hear a chuckle.

We laugh, rubbing a garnet stone, and painting a dahlia.

I love you like yesterday, to pull and tease, a welkin pain.

We felt it early, to spin abuse, to meet like a dream. I

love you like future, to analyze love, a deep azure. We

sit in fluids,  to puff reefer, and challenge another round.

I pour a glass, to feel for warmth, a ten minute run. We

laugh, fully devout, to tamper sin. Love moves, to strike

for passion, and there we are. I love you like future, and

nearly crazy, to be so young. We’re earnest with fever,

found in spinning words, spilling champagne; and oh

your laugh,  a bracket of tears, a heart with flutters.  

Sad Tour

I venture to write, if only to see, to filter a caveat. We

stand aloof, a friend of swans, eager to reappear. I say

we, if only to feel it, a step behind self. What for

winning, to dream in purple, as royal as praise. I’m a

knee in, to reckon chi, to grip mica. Was I there—to

see Scripture—even a first born? I did it—to receive it,

and mother cringes. We die daily, an old self to perish,

and wait for sin. Such a secret—soon revealed, colored

in nonchalance. I spoke for truth, something laughed

upon—a must to tell. We lived for lies, sudden pains,

and the grit of a false future. It’s dearly dramatic, to

haunt a soul, an uneven number; and thus, a base founded

in zeros, to claim organic. I drift, to feature a torment,

riddled in addiction; and how long, prior to chills, rocking

softly? I remember bells, and sullen wine, so far for close.

A wolf was king, praised through mind, as known as a

leaf. Is it joy, ever to reach, where flame is queen? I ask—

founded in a dream, to write an essay. It’s been time, to

laugh freely, to ignore suspicion. Is it ever giddy, a sea

of keys, a guarded lock? I drift, to smile a flight, to

wrestle self; and there she stands, clad in sky-beams, waving

a feather. Prom is rites, a heart’s engagement, to see it

through a portrait. I see a gate, and grace is breathing,

flown into a pretzel. I hear for twilight, a twinge of trouble,

where light is shrouded. It’s more a rhythm, where structure

is voice, as opposed to roots. I drift, to admire for silence, a

female sage, grounded in chi. We spoke in brief, a scarf for

words, to part unaffected. Years have felt presence, staring

into reflections, to see for a new self; and so lost to drive,

blaring for jazz, to flit and fly into mesto.    

Fleeting Wings

It means nothing, for jasper dreams, cut through topaz.

You’re still for brick, to muse a song, a mystic

background. I speak to color, and aqua pains, and

sunstone thoughts. It would never fly, to pine a dove,

as jaded as snowfalls; but ever a want, to know for

passion, and torn appeal.

It’s dearly unfair, to ask for granite, and posit

snowflakes. I feel for it, to scream for it, smelting gold.

You heard for cringe, to live it—prose, a ghost for a

heartbeat. We’re pruning fevers, and esoteric, proud

to resist. It’s vision for breath, a senator’s daughter, to

tiptoe transgression.

I’m a tatted storm, as humble as Labradors, as beige as

mystic. You pose for aster, a bit deceptive, and eager

for gems. Was it Adonai—to strip a soul, to pause for

holy? or more charisma—to unlock vaults, and

bury an old faith? I disappear, to trek through thoughts,

drifting through a maze.   

Imagine

She speaks rarely, sized in vibrations, telic in presence. We

seal for whet, a whit reply, if only wise. She’s quiet, with

attitude—oozing through grace. A tad bit wild, to live

suffocated, a mental flog. We flail for perfect, to whittle

love, afraid to meet her. I saw her wounded, a cool

demeanor, palms together. Her plaint was simple, and left

unspoken, for souls to guess. Something pelt deeply, to

scatter images, to capture dreams. A Jinn was nigh, to push

a folly, where she combed mane. I saw a jagged innocence,

hurling wisdom, tempted to sin. Was it riddle, to see for

death—a life? I ask—for no reply, to simmer in sorrow. I

see for jewels, a background—in pearls and diamonds. I see

a longing, an icy disposition, a need to peer through mess.

Is it amber, even lotion, a moonstone smile? I barely hear,

ever to hear—a purple riddle. If I spoke of webs, would a

soul run, crashing into waves? I ask—for no reply, walking

through topaz. We know for subtle, ever an image, and

sapphire screams. I thought to imagine, if only a dream. 

Oh to be Found through Turquoise Skies

Oh to be found, soaring—with black wings. Color in broken

parts, and white suffers heart. Sirens ring through ghettos.

We know for pressure, to wrestle God—the grace of Jacob.

Oh to be found, to tailor prayers, to surge through motion.

She’s a belle, the life of a nun, running to glory. We never

speak, from smile to nod, semi-exiled. Oh to be found, a

born image, where fabric bleeds. Infuse us—Lord; make

for an hybrid wind, ever for wisdom. There’s a turnstone,

to witness life, imbued through vision; for much to feel, to

experience wealth, saturated with stories. More hymns for

ice, to live with Jinns, to worship angels. He’s keen for the

collar, to mimic Joseph—made numb and holy. There’s a

whisper, to repeat for caves, an otic revelation. Oh to be

found, even to mine, grounded at the nave. We love for

glory, a field of ghosts, to praise the Paraclete. Time

speaks a journey, planted in secrets, to infuse a client.

We hide to garner life, to uproot sorrow, to a neat degree.

Oh to be found, soaring through turquoise skies.