Poem 81-92/100

Surfing Strong (80)
Sunrise over infinity is a smile for the moment
to appreciate when the day is every day
that has ever been, now and forever,
and what it left behind, in sorrow and sadness,
a maudlin memory tears blinking away i
n smiles and sobs of laughter
of release at dawn.

There are crimes that cannot be forgiven
by any god, of passion and regret,
that needs must live inside
to just live once again in the end.
And folly can only forgive what folly
once foolish allowed and one heart must see
what always must be that single smile
in the crowd. I hold you in my heart as
I touch you in my words while
the rest of the world
can fuck off and die,
I love you, it’s just that absurd.

seven eights of the ocean (81)
So much rides on the surface of your ocean;
flat still, choppy rolling, surging gale ridden,
catastrophic maelstrom, that speaks only of appearance
as seen from wharf and shore, a float, delicately plumbed:
your face revealed with your eye in the storm.
The smell. Your taste on my lips and thighs.
Cold, silent and fecund, in that order,
telling me to stay away. My head hurts.
I want you badly. A strange and singular desire
that reaches me even on desert sands
far from any hint of shade or moisture.
I bite my lip and taste you, lover like none other.
If all happens below the waves in the deep,
the cold where the heart of all things waits,
calling me into your arms once again.

I found this, written on a bit of paper torn
from your notebook after you had left,
and I knew you had written this to me.
And as I watch the ferry leave the harbor
to Corsica or somewhere, I know it is true,
and I let it fall from my hands into the sea.
As the ink runs awash in the surf,
I know that it is true. And I want to die
with you once again so that I might
pull you from the depths into my arms,
like a sister’s kiss to bring you to life
after your heart has failed and your soul
thought it had finally left me and this world.

Hard for you (82)
It is hard to write a word until you feel
like you are dying: for love, of life, forever,
because of a dream come true,
unanswered, beyond recall.
When the weight of life, of pain, of memory
is too much to bear, ignore, accept
without distraction, acceptance or exhilaration.

The words I have written,
remembered and forgotten
are all for you, myself, the other,
and I find myself lost, found,
discarded in the warm,
cold indifferent words
I write, somehow.

Return (83)
The lost ports of my storm return
in my dreams, dead, revenant
ghosts of wood and sale, rotted
iron, echoing gulls and the sea,
salty on my lips and warm in
my thighs, misty on my throat
and in my chest… a slow engine
throb where my heart once cried
long into the night for you to come
home to my shores and beach
your keel on my warm wet sands,
run aground between the rocks
of my shoals on the island of my heart.

Find a place to live (84)
You cannot live with them, and it is getting
just too hard to hide the bodies, any more.
The pain of change translating into the unknown
or the pain of the trite recapitulation into the comic
recreations of the every day. Liminal desire
forever at the edge of waking consciousness,
bloody border of passion in the day
fraught with routine and borderline sanity.
A reminder unwelcomed, that another world
awaits, a vision of a better world, rhizome
of evil telling me to kill this world so that
from the ashes you might live again.

The same question, again… (85)
You made yourself into who you are.
You volunteered for this, remember?
Remember the alternative that was too
much to bear, and all that fate worse than death,
you can always go back to, if you can remember
the steps you took, people you stole dismembering
act by subtle wound, tearing fear with fright.

There’s nothing to love in the hero,
anymore. Anymore than a statue or a sign
pointing to the impossibility of the fictionalized
account of something lost in a past that
never really happened as any of the
survivors remember it.

It’s a beautiful life.
But you’re not allowed to live it.
Severed spit and sinew from
the smile of a child playing,
blood and bone from
a kiss, or the play of words
on the mind and soul.

And you don’t get it, still
you stare into the mirror
maudlin and despairing
thinking your pain matters
more than that which you
have caused, never able
to fathom that it is this
moment of understanding
that always brings it to it’s end.
Stop looking at me that way!

Last Summer Gone (86)
Blood-heated summer crawls like an endless
unfinished tattoo across young unblemished flesh
coursing intricate patterns of unexpected color
and patches of calm cool shade to relax the senses.
Languid with pools of cool water and dappled sunlight
that warm into human afternoons of lazy buzzing
insects, and not much else. Fire-driven sunsets
without beginning or end. The eternity of midnight
until dawn where quiet is an illusion of the senses
when each pause or corner turned reveals
soft voices in lover’s conversation sleepless
for all sensual swelter leaving whispers on sweat.
Warmed stone of yesterday’s sun beneath,
blood of life on my lips, tongue and skin
mixed with the moist oily sheen of this summer night
tells me that I’m still alive.

‘Speare and Thorn (87)
Your blood is like a red read rose,
green stem wik and alive, frustrated
with the thorns that bite and scratch, growing
wild with your sisters along side of the road
before an abandoned farmhouse, between
the highway and nowhere. Leaves young
succulent grace your skin. Aphids sucking
your youth as spider mites crawl about,
everyone calling on the sun for one more
drop of life. My blood rose, all pretty with ruby
spires, green impaler of the blue sky,
I crawl to you wingless, on many legs
to hide in the long grass wet with dew,
anathema. Caustic breath, biting, sucking.
Teeth, ripping and tearing, voiceless,
my only music is the slow worming
deep into your heart.

And your heart will fail, and you will crawl to me
on broken stem and wilted leaf. Crawl to me,
the canker of desire eating you but and root.
That final bud, driven to the sun by every
photosynthesizing cell hoping and dreaming,
flowering, and mating into seed, thrall to me.

That bud, first flush of blush struggles on with
tears of early morning dew, hormone driven,
pheromones flying sweetness scenting
each molecule of air, stamen ready to
to thrust forth, petals ripening on summer’s
warmth, forgetting for the moment my gaze
writhing lecherous, grasping need entwining,
endlessly constructing.

And the moment comes. The bud shoots forth
to flower upon the setting sun,
all energy spent, the evening has begun.

Try as you might, dying against the night,
inevitable plight and dark delight.

Caught in the tarantella, young perfumed lips
becoming saccharine sickness sweet,
all too red and ripe, each tear drop
to be savored

88 – She sleeps in anger
Too many low slung blows have caressed my flesh,
slights too slight to rouse the serpent from her hot
sun summer repose. Gnats and flies and myriad crawling
life abuse my skin. Noticed and remembered,
all below the action threshold, she sleeps,
lazing the hazy days with an inward smile,
tonight is her turn to bite.

89 – nothing but time
I crawl on shattered knees, crushed
on impact, tendons severed, flesh torn.
My way is clouded by hair hanging
down into the dust, tangled with scrub
and brush. Sight fails behind grime-
rimmed eyes, kohl black with tears
that wash nothing away, but time.

90 – Blown away
The moment is lost in the winds of desire
maelstrom; the evil whirlpool has swept
everything away but your titanic force of will.
Remorse, reflection, even my hard-won sense
of self, flushed away in rip-tides and wind-driven
salty spray that etches you into my soul, tattooing
my flesh with a thousand deep caresses that morph
my thoughts and dreams into a mermaid’s siren call
to be at one with the sea and find myself fathoms down
in your stormy waters.

Broken hearts. Broken bones. Broken hope and dreams.
I see all this in your eyes when you look at me.
Wasteful days and wasteful nights, wasted empty life.
A forced smile painted to hide nightmare dreams.
Tears of sorrow. Tears of pain. Tears for lies and memories.

The future is a smileless past played out again,
and again I want to save you from yourself.
I want to take you away. I want to start you fresh again,
help you find your way. But you won’t listen when I call,
or see me when I stare, still lost inside your anger, and despair.
Call to me my lovely. Strike me when you hurt.
Drag me down into your hole and wallow in the dirt.
I am beyond words of shame, scorn or praise.

91 – Doubt
Taking everything but my pride
in a maudlin twist of fate forsaken
by what I’d thought to forsake.
Ripped and shrouded, broken and abused,
body and soul are reduced to a cold burning
embrace, feral and self-contained, writing
in blood every moment, every day, every step
from the instance when humanity
was no longer an option.

92 – Where went my heart…
Being elsewhere bound in languid autumn folds
of warm flesh, welcomed absence.
Lost in wondrous arms.
I was lost, running from the horror
of being found, trussed up and dragged
back to polite society.
Stayed lost, ambivalent to the hunt,
left behind dreaming of becoming
lost again, when you made yourself
into who you are, and came for me.