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Haven’t concentrated much
Sorry to say,
You smell like heat and rain
and I’ll fall in, falling in
Before we even began.
Before we even wrote Start and End
Bookcases stand upright
while I hold my head high.
A thousand stories replay
Our song tonight.
Kiss and hold and bite
But you’re so tight
Too rough, too much
Too full and not enough.
I turn away,
I face the rain,
I feel you above and beneath,
Secrets I play hard to keep
and keep secret. Instead
I look down, the sheets are red,
Stained in story, stained in blood
I turn away, below, between, around, above
Such brown eyes spin me deep
In and out of dream and sleep.
I sigh and whisper
I won’t remember
and skin tugs and aches
Brown by brown
Deep and dark and down.
Remember the rain.
I remember and I ache,
Muscle tendon, synapse, and brain
Hoping I’ll wake up again.
Remember skin,
Remember sin,
Remember images torn away
and dreams both grace and craze.
Remember the rain.
I remember eyes so brown
They’d bury deep, etching
Beneath my heart, to drown
in crazed ecstasy.
And here, between push and pull
I tug towards you,
Deeper than passion
Stronger than love,
A gift from hell above.
There was a girl. And another girl, as is often the tale. One played the drums, and the other was wrapped in a mental game she would lose. The two fell in love with the other. One girl died, while the other was awoken by the master players of that mental game. That girl cried in anguish, unaware that the mental game continued, as it always would.
She watched whispers against the sky
She watched it all and waved goodbye
He watched her, those ribbons in her hair,
She swayed against the wind without a care.
“Why so sad, our little peacock?” He might say
“Because they left and colored the sky gray.”
And he might lean in, whispering a word or two
“You are the only one of your flock, just you.”
She might giggle and reply within a moment or two
“You are one of many, one of many and yet so blue.”
And he might stand and he might shake
And she could giggle or she could quake.
But she will only look back above
At the stars so cold, never filled with love.
He might watch her and he might wonder
She might ignore him, she might ponder
At fluttering grays of the sky
At an old man whistling on by.
She will sway and dance, yellow ribbons in her hair
And watch the world tumble and toss without a care.
Nocturnal shades of amber pulled us in.
The story old, the muse older.
I felt the tug of lampshade, stories obsolete,
smell of curry beneath my feet.
They spoke of ancient Queens,
long ago they had foreseen
of what, they would not say
pointing upwards in Heaven’s way,
words inhumane,
their eyes arcane.
We wove along,
battle cries becoming song
against potent shades of gold.
Their eyes red as dusk,
their skin like ivory husk,
beseeching once more for fatal drop.
They spoke of dreams
a kind never heard or seen
teeth lay bare against pale gossamer.
Still, sand flicked and spurred beneath my feet,
still, weaving story teller weaved,
pale hands grabbed at empty air
claiming answers, quiet, still, within dusk air.
Lay them bare, pale lips declare,
remember nostalgia,
as if she could tell of why we tremble on
while destruction calls like siren song.
Salty air disturbed her words, mingling
with foam and break. The blue brilliance
called before us, enticing
her more than me.
This is the end of all things,
she said simply.
Pages fluttered against crashing waves,
a red sailboat winked from beyond the grave.
Words ran together like great memory
as story lunges and is lost.
The kiss of dusk
to salty blue, sang to us
like beckoning flame
and stories wove themselves, picture to frame.
Of sun and moon we have not seen
since eclipse of the sky
last summer, mid-July.
Red shades, lost love, gleamed before her eye,
and story crashed against shore and foam,
gasping softly, she turned away, alone
to her nocturnal thoughts. The story old,
the muse older.
The tug of lampshade flamed before me.
The moon silent in her reverie,
the sun in conquest of past dreams.
What’s done is done she said simply.
I walked along the ancient city,
whispers of fabled Queens
whispers of weaving so pristine,
and older still, skin of ivory
and curry beneath me.
I vaguely recall declarations,
nocturnal shades, conflagrations
of words and character.
Sweet shades of dusk like pure nectar,
but twirling haze, mist, and fog,
story lost beneath prologue.
She beckons, I follow gratefully,
do I dream or awake to reality?
House of Infinity 