a nuclear sunset melted into the sea, rippling
sonic vibrations like mana behind the mystic,
the way sand dust brushed off her moonflesh, and the
look she casts, having caught a spectator
upon such private moments, burned a rash in his mind.
tonguing instant love as ink across silk.


you can hear his eyes echo inside the rumbling
stomach of a whale, trapped, and digesting himself,
just as we all are.
his hands are not sacred. his touch is a disability to humanity.
you couldn't count miracles with his fingers,
but she sucks them like opiate sticks,


hoping to die suddenly, struck down by craft.
in the heartbeat of a guitar. how it speaks simple ironies,
lost romances, junkies on phony fixes who believe
in one axiomatic madness, virgin-souls bound to a deserted religion,
remember voiceless songs, and lonely wails, and dry storms.
calloused thumbs whisk over a velvet dynasty of strings.


on his lips she tasted mouthfuls of african empires,
they were not lovers; as a mere note that allude affinity,
has meaning enough to polar-disperse them forever.
it is the start and the end that stands as an enemy of time.
and a million deaths he aches for within her body,
theatrically transcribed, incomprehensible as matter between father and daughter.


native sins they must submit before her heart shuts,
these sycamore hideaways belong to ones who dream awake, and is no place for
married wrecks. "to love is to love to the death,"
he sailed across the esplanade on her neck. he is the ghost of
an old love serenade, that beguiled the tragedy in her, their limbs harmonised
like bow and fiddle, bleeding stars of their immortality and legend.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others