Beyond verse, there is no rehearse
for two lovers drinking each other in bed
Pouring the orchard of midnight promise
from your neck to the top of your boots
shoulder the weight of wedding rings, rain-arrow
slings and those places where we remember sadness
Clit-lit and the distant verbs within
split bodies as broken tambourine skin
To bite my diary between your thighs
let your compass swing as a frantic metronome
Watching the hills smoulder with wildfire
from behind window like watercolours
framed by burning scarecrows
ash crucified on their own Calvary
My mind rattles like
typewriters shunted by dementia
Let’s walk through our minds
on the other sides, hand-in-hand,
just engulf the mountains, blue.
May silence reap what we sow
Wintertides swell in my harbour
coracles of sleepless nights
drift me towards the most open of ports.
The library’lust cargo could iceberg the Titanic
Blackberry love bites turn silver
between sunset’s long fingers
hands which merely fumble a toast every
old-long-since to the absent and dead
The leaves settled beside graves
can be used as bookmarks for tomes?
Dear R,
There is a particular woozy thread throughout this write I find appealing. A longing that only those who feel that pull to connect with something other worldly can truly put meaning. The innuendo and outright lust is well written and alluring. Great write. H 🌷
Passionately penned, Ghosteen. Excellent write as always my friend. Sorry about your commenting situation. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian