O Like a Fire That Flickers for the Fairer Sex


I think of women on
Hot extravagant afternoons
Words from the Earth, my little bread
The water of centuries picked clean
I let the red ink of these prerequisite passages

Settle in me, their earthy wisdom
Like a masseur’s warm open hand
Their expert flirtation of
Psychology and innate fastidious ‘performance’
I think of women on

Cool nights that restore my pulse
I listen to them too much
To hasten to their self-same torments
I’ve heard all of their complaints
On the tipsy tip-toes of poetry

I did nothing to provoke them
My goldenrod of spilled yellow friendship
I am a living animal, in their presence
An outlawed sign-language of my desire
They read on their unmenacing lips

A sour frantic belonging of their value
I think of women on
Mornings of the shrewdest plans
They are instrumental to my cathedral-abundance
I’ve become too good at giving & giving-in

And now a most savage dog
I think of women on the way here, or there
After-hours rain downs my familiarity
I think of women like naming the planets
Pirates of my soul’s bleeding kisses

Whimper, silly, hush, flood, hot-flashed
I think of women and their sweet roar
Sweat, push, pull, sign, moan, hush.

Like an Aztec Peasant Warrior


But we are permitted to wonder
And there is nothing left to say of it
My vows were dead as premonitions
Like an Aztec priestess, I was sent to be sacrificed

When the sudden death came
I was not expecting, the inevitable
I lost consciousness distilled in a lifetime
Of servitude, and vowed one day to rise

In a different form, a greater jaguar
The old winter rain stained my blood soaked body
I am afraid there is no room, in your heart
For one such as me, I am too gentle

Too kind, too sort of like a shepherd
I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more
But we are permitted to wonder
What might have been, I know in dying I do

I shall sleep in the streets with the last Great Word
And tell no grand-daughters why you were so cruel.

I Have Not Had the Pleasure


Your mind is a beautiful raiment
Of an alien geometric pattern

I was haunted by your icy banner
Your sermon of the snow

Your soul is a beautiful sky-trace
Of an alien enchanted thrill

I was haunted by your perverse design
Your sensuality of dark heavens

Your body is a beautiful smouldering city
Of an alien city I once called home

We have not sown this, it has come from before
Like a karma of how I go to things I love

Your mind does justice, in the places
Between us, like velvet telepathy

Of an alien fashion, I used to know about
The place of higher skill, the paradise of migratory students.

Her Veils are White as Snow


98

My resurrection is a sensitive process
Like a bee-line of women, as symbols
Of the remuneration of my destiny
I want their food, their shelter

Their fragrance, not as significant
Of what I might hoard, or plunder
But of a banquet of trade
That I might have something enriching to offer

O blasphemy is love’s ecstatic fire
I am reckless with the reality of it
Smoothing and apple-green
What in their skin could possibly redeem me?

It’s an illusion of the material world
I’m sure of it, flowers on the water
Lotus bud in the air, I stare past mirrors & windows
Back to nature, back to God

I am clothed in sensual clothing
My resurrection is a taboo exploration
Like a woman’s body that has never been fondled properly.

Photography Credits: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Youthful-heart-373919675