which golden beasts do you shelter?

some of us are lured
by outback calls; we stray
too far.

winter powders our golden
fleece, bleaches us to bone and horn.

like Murakami's fated unicorns,
we are torn from self and shadow,

always on the prowl,
in search of that one perfect honour.

pressed against the outpost wall

we have all done battle,
even those with memories stitched closed
and pressed against
the outpost wall.

Leaving Croatia

Angel,
they skinned you and left
your seams hanging
from a heaven tree.

I learned
to pack my suitcase fast
without your sealing touch

it has been difficult
each night a blanket
filled with worms that spin and choke

living creatures
carried in a box
 fit for shoes or silk cocoons.

And in a tiny envelope
a message stamped in rosy hue:

I am leaving Croatia. What about you?

Fashionista Walks The Plank

Pollywood,
your cheap dress
squawks
in outrageous top notes.
 
Beak, claws and flaws
were destined
to walk the plank
before my swan song ended.

peacock girl's vain desire

I hardboiled
your captured eye;

peacock girl,
your pride ripens,
lethargic cheese
beside a campfire.

a stick, a skewer,
a twig or stiff feather,
each one enabled
to toast your vain desire.

Lonely Girl Two

okay

so even in translation you confess
you are no less

lonely today, yet you have not spent

your memories deep inside a dry well.
Your memories are

disingenuous

and one by one,
they will slaughter you.

This Will Not

End
anytime soon

Lonely Girl
your praises
have been neglected by all moons.

In another life
time, you were proud and perhaps true;

now you wrestle with the riddle
of an impossible You.

a grimace, Mr. Lawrence

Impertinent!
scolded headmaster
whilst his submissives scraped

Alpha DogShit
off their shoe-toes

en pointe,
they are stronger than ladders
and weaker than calendar love.

sad view

oh, my fish girl,
with a swish of your tail
you prevail

let those men snuff cigarettes
on others less agile.

such a lonely life,
one of cast and catch

your lips are bleeding
or perhaps
that is mere ghost

of lipstick smudge,

but tell me, what do you use
in lieu of a cunt?

your hateful demographic

stretch that stammer
out of my mouth
like derelict chewing gum
or an ectopic pregnancy

run errant.

I confess.

That, and that alone,
allows a blessed pause,
like the mythical marriage of Jesus.

My landscape
precludes Nazareth,
but I was raised
to serve and oblige.

I wait, sweet-tempered,
for an abstraction
colder than Truth and sweeter than Death.

.

forever hampered

at Venice,
you were dispossessed in Harlequin
array.

slanting downward,
those eyes of yours
winced under angel skin

strobelights.

as though to taunt
a final enactment,

you were tossed
onstage, a whiskey velvet
carpetbag bereft

of tag and owner.

some might call
you sad. I know

you simply as
the eleventh bandit.

Death Of An Icon

Marie Line,
your ship raised sail or sank
before the revolt set in

never the less & what ever
I write to you
with a scorned left hand

to inform you
of your untimely
yet very salty death.

ignorance clips its wings

allow me to introduce myself:
I am truncated from long line
of seamstress serfs

who worked overtime
to disprove linear truths.

When I was asked,"Hair or limbs?"
I refused to forget
my stoic lineage.

Kindly excuse.

Black Swan Theory

fold your tatters,
little paper boats
that navigate deep sewers

sweep your chimney clean
then swim toward me again

I will be waiting
on an awkward mirror
just beyond
your slipped beak.

Monika

carry me over
the threshold of your harvest,

petunias and pumpkins
marry in your unruly courtyard.

each phrase is honed
then positioned upon
the chopping block.

your cheap costume
is decorated with holes;
nontheless, you protest
in patrician tones.

Grace Note

between stations,
landscape blindsides
our picnic basket

so painstaskingly packed
with Euro-trash
and a grandmotherly assortment
of pastries.

Grace,
forgiveness is the sweetest note
your throat will ever entertain.

my foolish rabbit

as an Alice, I suggest:
protect your timepiece.

Never the less,
you persist on shape-shift

from foolish girl
to accomplice.

When I meet you,
how will I know
if you are snake or ladder

or merely unteachable foe?

home is where

you lose your cat
and crawl to locate
the phone that overrides
hot silence.

no matter
how you pimp your roof,
it all must fall,
the whole disaster—
each plastic face
surrenders.

Finally, you accept the call.

Interfaced

erased,
I squirm only

for love
or its erstwhile equivalent.

Being
is a term
foreign to most readers.
In our cases,
we learn to endure.

Evangelita, My Lovely

I know nothing
about cities guarded by angels.

I have One I call my own,
and she is strictly East Coast.

Like the weather,
she comes and goes,
but is always here and there.

Everwhere I imagine the colours
of her shadows: a silvered rosegold.

She graced my tongue
with luminous candy,
more precious than gemstones

to a child hitchhiking home.

dry spell

you choose not
to visit my dry
architecture;
darling, I am well.

bereft

you have your
followers; I have mine

except that all hope
suddenly runs blind

and I am forever
turning a corner—
missing my eyes.

reconstructive brick-laying

I neglect your betrayal,
brick by brick.
Painstaking and sullen,
I will be rebuilt.

judge and jury

how could I possibly
forget your endearing name,

little darling?

such a storm overtakes
my senses; forgive me.

I am shipwrecked.
I can no longer
curve an arm toward justice.

once law-abidden, now
a bandit, pacing

like an appeal gone astray.

My Beautiful Clothes Line

my laundry executes
a curtain call:

a noble peacock shawl
sheds its knotted fringe

slender green slivers
to bring you toward

and forward
although you may
have to bend

the dresses of summer
in bedtime pink cotton

are almost ready
for boxed denial

but at this moment
they are perfectly happy

so close to flying
yet lovingly pegged.

The Cure

your words spring
from a rust-locked source
yet they are impossibly
pure and wet.

dry spell

In the beginning,
there was debris.
Then an artisan appeared
with magic hands

and the will to invade
closed spaces.

We suffered
until we understood
there is nothing
beyond waiting.

misdirected



your steps framed

under moonglow

beg an impossible question:

where do I go?

heart-throbs and pit-stops

terror
allows me to gallop upon water
women
like buildings can be shot
full of holes

but then again
I recall the beauty of my clothesline:
linen daisies, silk roses and tulips
stitched from skin.

foreshadowed

If I lure you
out of that paper trance,

can shadow dance
with mistress, together

in our border land?

Words wilt
on the page— my will
sweetened on the vine
of your time-travelled stance.

variations

your floral lies

are always fresh and fragrant.

wrapped and masked

in marzipan walls,

your face has lost

its tragic flaws

and calls for entertainment.

decadent and shy

Marie,

your fetishes are quaint,

assuredly quite harmless.

Disarmed

by all that was and is,

I sponsor your bold shyness.

lice and larceny

you stole
my ampersand, claiming
it was graceless, a mediocre anchor.

I called you Gypsy thief;
your thighs parted
like the Red Sea,
allowing menstrual lies
to swim

feckless reminders
of an aborted odyssey.

brutal opposition

you grounded fuck:
I oppose your bulbous nose
and potato disposition.

you may suck the fungus
between her bloated toes,
but that does not impose
graced status.

pale duet

sometimes I pinken

to your thrum—

ballerina and accordian

cornered

Never
were my lies unjustified
Nor
my stitches double-crossed

A seamstress' daughter
and a watchmaker's mongrel
deserve a cornered chance.

Folly

I fall for you

like a blushing bride

hooked in fives

with painted pride.

What Leda Forgot

the fierce nip of monogamy
brands a sweet sinner.
feather love is stained
by a drop of liquid stone

her posture
provokes a cruel friction—
sacrifice spread to the bone.

The Waiting Art

inertia is a term
sorely misunderstood.
I live my life in waiting,
always poised toward
that perfect branch

yet bloodstreams travel
endless, the hot, wet gurgle
of piecemeal living.

I wait
and despite your non-arrival,
my being is never still and always strong.

prequel to a snapshot

that's enough,
words slurred,
a lilting liason.

take me back
or bring me toward.
Prove
time is not linear,
and that there is order
in the next world.

death and the mannequin

Exhaustion
did her in, the same listless
trance, almost Sisyphean.

Trained and tracked,
the villain got her back—
a slip whom none left erect
is willing to protect.

Your ____________________

Your footsteps
do not exist
in my water-logged element.

Selection Quebec

Your vintage scent
is long-dried, ash-roses
staining a bloodied sash

or a bookmark corrupted in plastic.
Quebec, take a good, hard look:
Your politicians are cut from the same cloth
far-flung from lusty runners in woods.

Chaos and the Maiden



staged,

your coach boasts rose velvet trim

yet all about

the acrid touch

of chaos snakes

its entrance into a mild landscape.

You ask

yourself: Am I a rescued maiden or merely

one of the intricately posed and if so,

what difference does it make?

filthy sheets

I recall your elegance,
now swallowed by the dignity

of the discarded.

Filthy Sheets!

You must have it a particular way
in your tilted universe.

I recall your prudence,
honey-dipped tongue and deep golden curls.

My darling, the world was yours,
but genetics had a will of its own.

invective

Preamble: there are stenches that refuse to be removed. Perhaps they can be burned off, but then, what does one do with devastated skin?

my black swan,
I have trudged
paradoxically airborne
through landscapes
and hardships

to be reunited with your brutal lips.

indentured

Each fairy tale
a sly conspiracy,
a Rumplestiltskin perched
like a parrot upon your pecked shoulder.

Maiden,
step bold or fear nothing
and let yourself go.

Bust A Gut

Bust a gut
reviling my utter failure and life of loss.
You

may be young and arrogant,
but treachery will unclothe you.

First, it takes your smudge-proof lips;
then it swallows  all reticence.

the stammering daughter

You may naysay your trinkets,

step out of the lobby.

The table is set

with liquorice and honey.

Waylaid on an ancient ride,

your vehicle collides and nothing

can change the spillage and pain.

yacht blue

Wearing green silk lining
as fluid as water

I reach vaguely upward,
historically tangled

dreaming
of boxes and barges
and books in tense binding