We’re not allowed to go there in the grey zones where bodies merge with faces and eyes hint at moonlight.
It is forbidden to sit with swirls of the night’s memory smiling back at me
or the wish to linger in a swoon.
The bed is comfortable with remembering of you. The night lives behind my eyes
as the day swirls in a cold, bright wind.
Watching TV relaxed as movement echoes through me.
Love,
it is that thing which binds us into the world.
Lets us see blindness and obscurity and
how these are powerless to mystery.
We surf as slaves on a stream of her imagining.
She invites us to become the stream and the imagining and to become unto her.
Into her.
Through softer streams of hair and rivulets of wounds,
tightly wound within and into one another,
a delicate tread.
Her mouth is open and receiving.
Are you suffering to love?
Or is she already moving through and for you?
Have you coped with the boundlessness of every desire
curved infinitely and washing through you,
an exquisite dream?
This story was originally written in January and posted but then a good friend painted this beautiful painting to go along with it. So here it is again, meaning fortified and intact.
There was a man. There used not always to be men, but this was at a time when it could be said that there was a man.
A sailor who, when his ship came to shore, left the town, the crowds, the market place. The hoardes of salesmen and grey windows where behind spinsters thrived sewing and curing ham, sending sons off to war and daughters to be whores {click below to continue}
He wanted it all and he got it
The eyes of longing and a wishing
Of life he dared not breathe to live Read the rest of this entry »
Love drifts
And waits
In piles
And causes
The raker’s grip
To drop
Love drifts
Diary of an Unborn Writer 