a nightly soirée

night-fishing-at-antibes-1939

Night Fishing at Antibes, 1939 by Pablo Picasso

words enveloping a slight breeze,
igniting curious forms – electric flowers,
dilapidated furnishings –
in this white expanse of high-
rises, and low lying lives (living lies),

words holding aloft meaningless
outlines to my structure, night
breathing its sonorous sounds
of cackling, ravishing through me –

i see gyrating epiphanies
of dahlias and pigeons mating,
of rain falling on the clouds,
bursting spectacles on the ground,
the predators prancing in a loss
of the timidity, of their own flesh.

dreams dreaming themselves
in a dreamscape verse – white doves
fluttering like paper, striking sun,
deepening gashes, of scarlet-violet
thickening into crystal lies (one disguise),

dreams holding fictions apart
from an unlikely truth-like reverie,
and drinking evening dews made of
spider silk, cactuses, subservient me –

i feel the voices of the dead
in my brown breast, thumping
steps of journeys, bound by
ringlets of faith, on the bodies
singled out in their own ecstasy,
of a rigidity, of their own levity.

~

it is a nightly soirée of handsome faces –

dark mouths,
darker eyes,
light dreams,
lighter skies.

.

For With Real Toads’ Weekend Challenge; also linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU

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i am smelling secrets

ETNA PLUS

not that you need to know
but would you like to know a secret?

it’s the curiosity of the unknown that
betrays your smile,

…ha ha…

it’s funny, no?

it was a morning, a dusk at dawn
when he walked alone on the sky
leaving a trail of forlorn vapors,

I knew that it was him, with his
usual tardiness, with ill begotten
terms of endearment, and sly words
whispered beneath the cloak of
midnight.

it was an evening, an enraptured death,
there was the usual sweat in the wind,
and I was walking down the memory lane,
when the wrinkled leaves swept by us,

“Why would you do this to yourself?” he asked,
and I said, “Why… that’s a secret”.

secrets are the aesthetic of our society wherein
the secret lies in the fact that secrets are not kept.

it’s funny, no?

not that you need to know,
would you, would you like to keep a secret
and hold it to your bosom, hide it in the folds
of your desires, because what else would you
hold so dear?

and would you promise to keep it,
by smearing your blood on my lips,
by flipping a coin, by caressing
the calluses on my feet?

there are skeletons in the closet
with a perplexed smile, mold has
taken hold of them and lies grow
instead of skin in its pale sheen.

it’s funny, no?

.
Image source

For Poets United Midweek Motif

acquiesce

 

nature1

when the light spilled out in the open,
I took a pause, my stride halted in that pulse
as they moved ahead,

his curls were visible in the crowd and her
pacified smile,
it was when the dark and light conquered
each other that I knew of those punctured
holes in my chest, I acknowledged my skin
in its composite radiance…

the distance covered itself, and holding hands
became arbitrary to my nature of resistance,

and letting my fingers entangled in her locks,

I saw to it that I would need, I would be human,
I would want to be found.

when the light spilled out in the open,
my heart was wrenched out of my open self,
and my bloodied hands traced the curves
of my laughter as its thunder boomed
against the sky, and the savage sun
spilled more light,
and the wailing winds fell into my eyes.

it was Elpis that rose from that gaping
hole, a new birth of dying, an old ending
to the origin of life,

open –

they saw the light.

.

For Poets United Midweek Motif.