got weird

by
soft morning kisses
delightfully chase away
the ominous thoughts
·
wielding compliments,
all misty blue hours vanished
in sound's nothingness
·
soul's stillness imports
every melodious echo
nestled through stories
·
emotionally
palpation got weird, likewise
to breathe love's moment


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nightingale

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my steps sound in the rhythm of your thoughts ‧‧‧ thoughts that are calling me out in your dreams ‧‧‧ dreams kissed smoothly on their velvety skin ‧‧‧ skin perfumed luxuriously with exotic scent, gently and alluring ‧‧‧ alluring and charming connected at the voice of a nightingale ‧‧‧ a nightingale on the fold of stars and moon's wrist, singing ‧‧‧ singing in its abandon, the pure essence of our carnality
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The Ghost Song

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it may have been in pieces... but I gave you the best of me Awake. Shake dreams from your hair, my pretty child, my sweet one. Choose the day and choose the sign of your day the day's divinity. First thing you see. A vast radiant beach and cooled jeweled moon, couples naked race down by its quiet side and we laugh like soft, mad children smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy. The music and voices are all around us. Choose they croon, the Ancient Ones, - the time has come again, choose now they croon  beneath the moon beside an ancient lake. Enter again the sweet forest,  Enter the hot dream, Come with us! Everything is broken up and dances. Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding, Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile eggshell mind. We have assembled inside this ancient and insane theater to propagate our lust for life - and flee the swarming wisdom of the streets. The barns have stormed, the windows kept - and only one of all the rest to dance and save us from the ...
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where I wait

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I know your name… It has risen every morning in my thoughts… but I do not say it aloud, too terrified that the poetry you are with its fragile cat's paw, will fall apart somewhere, not where I wait ‧ I know your name… I whisper it daily enough to not destabilize the chemistry of us… but also, me to not be somehow incriminated, for my mind bears you deeper than the eye can see Right Back Atcha by Dave Keller
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woman

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height – (fulfilled grace), weight – (clinically perfect), muscle mass – (explicit), haircut – (neglectfully), eyes – (chameleon-like), lips – (well-contoured), — talks little – does much, — (a corsair in poet's suit) ‧ wildly armed with optimism, (a stellar listener), wrapped in a gallant attitude, (similarly introverted), shows a smile as tactic outfit  with mind-to-joy attached, (is there, when is sung out) ‧ breathes life's treasures while actions grow in beauty like a bird or animal's spirit, or of a pretty much plant, offering what's been asked, overflowing with charm, besides the ambiance ‧ isn't upward, isn't downward; isn't on leftward, isn't on rightward, but ⋯ full of surprises in the woman chosen explodes in absolute (just like ⋯)
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all the best

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don't you see I'm burning with desire to see you? °°°°°°°°°°°°° to identify you in any of my fantasy all the best artists used their emotions ∙ the seductive nuances of the words built you to be my fire, fine structured ∙ musical compositions melt me in you, facing real life with accuracy, exposed ∙ on your face, sketched by memories, the verses of stars are in your eyes ∙ the lips of my inexhaustible blue poems are devouring yours; [you don't oppose]
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you next to me

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slowly, my thoughts' wings, flap before landing on your senses, — [that's why you feel some thrill] how I move, it's an impulse kind that cause you to think of me, — [AWOL, some say you're scatty] music you listen to isn't faux pas, isn't irrational directed to you, — [its aim is to get you next to me] y'know that thrill that makes you look like a scatty one… [well-well], you just got how much I love you
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watermelon sugar

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in the breath of a buoyant thought, your traces which caressed me softly, are bulldozing now, bestial mirages 𓇼 you walled me in watermelon sugar to look like an altar, where you love to kneel, sniffing thru my laced hints 𓇼 even your oceans gasp inside me, using thrilling brutality of a butterfly, woven with the litany of your teeth
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