inhale me. fill to full your lungs
and feel your head spin with specters
I speculate upon in words that whisper.
sated satyr sibilance to dance dreams
as you sleep the deep creep of darkness,
guarded by the cloud shroud of my winds,
atmosphere of the dear fear that clears
tears from cheeks better spent for kisses.

inhale me. for I am already reduced
to a sublime fog of passion, seduced
by the sedition of my vows to love,
and to those who serve as agents
to the transfiguration of lame logos
to the chanted cant of the choirs of heaven,
heaving high the argent arguments
that, in the end, serve no purpose.

you have the angels
and the demons
and the dragons in your fingers.
and as the final note lingers,
I am made modest
by the goddess
who just stole my genius.

your loins are smooth and warm
and my hand is alive as we send sensations
back and forth until they merge and we hear them...
whispering the joy, sparked in effervescent friction.

my lips explore and curves amend themselves
as your body stretches to my worship,
like a cat to the lone shaft of light in the corner.
slowly grooming herself for the next meal.

we are many hours from sleep,
but we rest our souls, banked in the fires
of our joint enjoinment and the balance of soft and rigid
membranes making their peace with our contentment.

I am destiny and memory.
and you are passion and delight.
the cost of hope, a prayerful salary
to the gods and goddesses of the night.

was that me who laughed, or was it you?
first, I mean, for we both fell to the moment,
motioned into the current of the challenge
of the deep balance of epitaphs unwound,
soundless as the eyes of angels, closed.

you are music and confection,
an allegoried perfection I dreamt of,
once, but never dared remember until now.
the sacred cow of a religion of romanticism.

the lights are casting shadows, somewhere,
but not here, not now, for nothing is hidden
and we are bidden to pass through the arch,
triumphant and tender, defenders of our hearts,
surrendered in the hypergolic heat of discovery.

the iron lion stands astride memory.
mantichore wings of black lace fragments
of a leather lost to the weather of whim.
to him alone is there an accounting.

countdown.

grey skies to brown toxic fumes
as the hypergolic moments when
soul and intellect touch in the ceramic chamber
of a nautilus heart.

the skies scream aside in a fictional friction
of breath drawn out to thread like taffy
pulled too long.
an obit of an orbit, undecayed
as the patina colossus pulls free his lame heel
from the grounding earth
and raises high the last romantic verb.

liftoff.

and I am gone.
gone beyond imagination.
a consecration of madness
sold in gold and honeysuckle silver.
quicksilver slowed to sublimate
into a crystalline matrix of time.

farewell.

farewell.

but it is no longer my concern.
for I burn tonight in orbit no longer.
stronger than an epiphany
made construct in the shallows of an id.

what shall I give, what shall I live
as monument to that which you share?
a care, aware of my own mortality.
morality split like hairs of reason,
seasoned with the variety of life.
and I love you in a tangled way,
passion and pleasure and patience and pain
staining the seeming sackcloth of this hermit.

you hold my soul in hands that grip
cold steel and leather bands of inspiration.

I see you in nectarine golds and reds
ripe as any blossom in a garden alive
with the passions you stir with a smile.

I dare not close my eyes for fear that
you will dance away with the will-o-wisp
memories of lovers unworthy and forgotten.

I will not lose my way, for you are incandescent,
and your light shows my path in perfect cut,
stone after stone after blessed stone to tread upon.

I perceive your beauty in spectra sudden
and sustained by words and a touch that blinds
me to all but you and all you would have me see.

I have sold my illusions and purchased eyes
with my passion, my obedience and my tenderness,
offerings to a goddess worthy of my worship.

there is an illusion of grey on eyes
that lost their way in the mists of love.
romantic hazes obscuring the colours
kissed by the morning and the night.

joy is what I find in the instants
between moments
when my feet are touching nothing but
sky
and the rocks recede
to return.
sooner or later.
driven by grave gravity
and the intemperate nature of natural law.
but
in the brisant moment,
leaping from
precipice to precipice,
I am reborn,
triggered and transfigured.
worn away are the chains of
the pains of
the stains of
mortal mediocrity
and I -
I am one with the clouds.

and I rain poetry.
(for that is my nature.)

as you turn your face skyward
to catch a few drops
on a tongue parched
by the dry air of memory
and the sun of shallow sentiments,
sold in the Hallmark rack
in the name of mass seduction.

and I rain poetry.

to irrigate the fields of forever
and make them ready for the seeds
planted without your realizing it
when you waved to me
as I ran the cliffs
high above the plains of stale acceptance.
and danced.
and danced.
and danced like a hurricane.
at the thought of you,
naked in the rain.

and I rained poetry.

bringing the thunder at the appropriate moment
when all other senses were spent
and only sound could
penetrate
the wet shell of overloaded synapses.
what passes for the echo
of fire that surged
and purged
the very ions of our irony.

and I rained poetry.

calling the winds to lift me.
to gift me with the words
that you would carry,
eroded into your sandstone soul.
nevermore the monolith,
but an aggregate of your essence
with flecks of my pitchblende.
bound to you by eloquence
that quenched an ancient thirst,
cursed to you
in a garden you will never see
except in the mirages of the maelstrom.

and I rained poetry.

and it was nothing.
compared to a single, honest kiss.
but it was,
in the absence of passion,
a worthy golem in the armies of solitude
up
on the cliffs
where I still dance with the winds.
and call the thunder.
even when no one watches.
or cares
or dares
to dance along.
(for that is my nature.)