When the vivacity of fresh snow,
adorned in black opal,
no longer reverberates.
When the gentle sound of a gut-string
your halycon chest.
When being submerged in liquid obsidian
fails to soothe
When the petrichor no longer chases the sun,
and I can no longer taste your nectarous flesh,
The world enunciates, sorrowfully,
it is nothing.
The light turns on it’s side.
It reveals to you it’s rotting tongue
and eyes that swell with perversity,
your stomach falls through stories of sorrow
and collides with the earth – who laughs
at your suffering
your pitiful life
crushing, red and yellow
the fragments of candied scent
die among bloody breath,
a slow, consuming rot.
Now, I may sleep.
From the red garden
soaked with calescent blood,
the threads of a willow tree
the lungs of the night
exhausted and cardinal.
With heart, engrossed
pulled ripe from her chest
your body seems lighter, now.
She still stands, there
her eyes are black, amorous
and from her, the sound
of a pearl-white orchestra.
Deep, bellowing sky
rippling through mulberry lilies,
kindling spirits of love lost
to be reborn again
in their jubilant sway.
Share with me this lucidity,
an amorous shell of fragile wisdom,
molten disparity, solid warmth,
kisses of sugared cherries and grape.
Hear them mulling in burning chests,
as the sun strikes down upon black crowns,
offering no more than
Hoarding time and gathering detail
we capture this earthly colour
in our stained-glassed memories.
The sea was calling.
As I stood on the edge of the world
I imagined everything suddenly
turning on it's side.
The water below moved over the rocks
like cells dividing,
and the rocks sang warning to the sea
to open her weary arms