a god soft palate

i loved you once,

in the coagulated moment of

all my past lives.

*

blood is a math that ages much;

the way people do, it deepens

in body and color

on a years long journey

of polymathy

up a god soft palate.

*

 

i’ve turned mecca gold, i’m painted in

calculus grace. it’s so nice to see you (and your fucking Windsor tan eyes)

again. i keep meeting you even though

we’ve n(ever) met; we

seem to be hex-trapped in a tetragon of entangled fates and in this millisecond i pledge a melodramatic bitch’s scarlet oath that i’ve met you at least a chiliad times and it’s absolutely dizzying like January snow in Syracuse.

 

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Hundreth Year Angel

 

Aureole over apparition winged and solennial: celestial slimikin starrified I have stibograms (facsimiles of your footfalls) etched in steam on glass. A golden yelve places embers on the deva thysiastery;

I worship Iliad’s pagan Helen in phoebus form: desiderium is mine in dolor violets; I miss you. Mythic Lily of the Incas, I divine you in shamanic tones; frothy, velvet delphinium delineates your mystic, Delphi purples; Greecian Hyakinthos lays palest bell-shaped hyacinths on the flaming scathefire of lust.

I burn sacrificial incense of protea and peony; Queen Anne’s lace and sea lavender are for your soteria; mikado apples burn to chocolately wenge, turn falu in fulvous flames. I wish for you in ciphertext; like the Rosetta Stone, I yen in glyphs. Like the scriptures I go between smoke and Hebrew, leaving Greek in the ashtray.

Elusive

Corn blue paper coin moon

                          hangs

                                out of reach of

the world.

Time Of Magic

You part your tears

with a seaglass hairbrush; the chocolatey, mink brush bristles 

paint pallid watermarks around your

wet-lashed eyes, like magic pipe frosting on papyrus. 

I watch the snow,

that only I can see,

fall morbidezza when you walk my way; Psychedelic dream winds lift rings of cigar smoke

from your hair in a dais like aureole;

and I realize that it’s happening again: to me, of course. 

Not to you

The silent, dreamsicle snow that 

only I 

percieve as both real 

and sentient 

happens to me; 

or rather, to sound less passive, I make it happen, like heroic magic.

It is my magic. It is my zoo, and I hope you’ll buy a yellow matinée ticket 

and come see me be ringmaster of the symphonic snowdrifts of my heart.

Frank Ocean Dreams

SoCal leather palms bleed shoe polish greens into the slush of warm peach breezes. Salt water sparkles on the naked, gilded sweet potato shoulders of a pole dancer; she’s taking a midday swim in the deep blue velvet before dinner. Then she’ll be off to work.

Idling near the sun-blanched boardwalk is a white Ferrari. It’s upholstered in sex, smashed funfetti birthday cake, and lemony quaaludes. The unidentified driver sleeps, baking in sun.

The car speakers are crusted in cake frosting courtesy of last nights A-Anon concessions; Zinfandel and Grey Goose leak from a scuffed sports bottle onto the lambskin in the backseat.

The man in siesta tries not to notice Friday Khalo weeping in the arms of an orangutan in the car seat next to him. 

Maybe, his Ferari is a Lamborghini with pink tinted windows, fetid orchids and pineapples carpeting the interior, and a pair of disembodied Marilyn Monroe breasts riding shotgun.

Closing my eyes is the answer.

Sunken Mermaid

The flooding

takes the roof off my mind;
I step into high water: 
Your brown Mississippi eyes 

peel the dingy pink

wallpaper from my 

parched, adobe soles
Your skilled phalanges are filaments of warm, 

muddy water and cane sugar; you are chocolate waves of
Summer magnolia clinging to windows opening into other windows; your eyes

lap at the tiny antebellum dollhouses between my painted plantation toes,

and sink me like a desert well.
You turned the key in my ignition only

to drive me into the lake. I remain a secret life, dead to you,

but teeming like a maritime rumor.

and I might never die.

Love Letter

Venetian wineglass reds and baked, love letter greige appear in photographic Vermeer splendor. Within gilt framework, a British rose is lined with mink lanugo and peanut butter and jelly umbras. Clothing litters the floor.

Pillow soft suedes of buff and bisque wrap round buttery dulce de leche integument; cakey stomach grades into chiffon breasts; cream puff mammeries taper into whipped mousse nipples. Dormouse hued areolas, cut from upcycled raw silk ballet slippers, are soft to the glistening tongue; saliva saké on satin. 

Amaretto almond liqueur sluices over velvet rope thighs; between the sex lines is a swollen cherry cordial; it’s suspended in cloudy honeycomb amber, wrapped within a lace g-string; a pearl of antique black truffle rests in a rustic mons clamshell of espresso semi sweet chocolate. 

The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.

Sappho’s Wedding

The star facet on this American cut diamond is a canapé frosted with supersensible beluga caviar:

friable eggs of dark light are wetly globular; they rest on the bezel of hope chest cantos. On her bride day,

Catherine-wheels of color pull karma from thin exnihilo and place dimensions of want within a jeweled safe box cathexis: this diamond.

Such a small stone harbors desires beyond the filamentous reach of felicific calculus. Right or wrong,

she’ll walk down the wynd in graywacke lace and gosling ivory; her gowany hair-trigger hexerei 

producing a greenhouse haet rose in the decanter hued grappa. Liquor the color of water will bleed if you look at it hard enough, and, miracle of miracles, you’ll see modern zymurgy: from water, brandy.

Lilith

Eden casts a love

spell of lavender

in the wild rose thicket;

a tattered, glossy ribbon

hangs from the garden’s

finger

in the wake of

horticultural magic:

from fecund flowering,

flesh of woman.

Autumnby The Little Witch

Summer is in the back of her throat, wrapped in a delicate wax paper mache of tropic banana leaves. 

The clouds in the sky above her look like puffy coat lapels, or like pubescent pouts post the negative vacuum of a shot glass per the Kylie Jenner lip challenge.

All around, the leaves craft aeolian chrysalises; you can taste the pre-gold fulvid beer, and the sumptuous boudin noir in their pigments.

Leaves of Uruguayan blood pudding lie crisp in the grass; next to them, icy orange peels with sugar rinds that are buttoned down with tumeric candied dates. Rich head cheese jellies and prairie oysters paint colors of carné on ash blonde lawns.

Autumnby paints gold dust on underbrush flanking the dirt path through the woods. Her chocolate brown afro curls turn a cool blue in the dusk. 

She is swathed in an oversized white plush cowl, her bluish curls making a halo around her mahogany face. 

Her magic swirls around her; fall time fortunes fill an ivory tusk cornucopia with the pollen of golden wish dust: crabapples, hard cider, maize moonshine, fermented berries and buttery gourds tumble from her lips into the fog.

Autumnby hangs wishes from the coat hooks of peeling tree bark, from the lose threads in dew studded spider webs, and from the figgy purplish-sables of rotting rose thistles.

Have you seen this little witch granting wishes in your neck of the woods today?

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