Archive for City

Dispatches From the Front

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The traffic signals are glass and plastic jewels
Smeared across the windshield
Cheap and gaudy ornamentation suspended
In pools of bruise purple black nighttime sky
While constellations of headlights form and dissolve
Stars afloat, hovering above the slick pavement.

Constant motion, vibrations, humming
Complicated rhythms of hands on wheel,
Feet on the pedals tapping Morse code gibberish
Underpinning radio hiss crackle
Disembodied voices, music, things forgotten
Things remembered by halves, rising and falling
Beneath oily waters, yet never quite breaching.

Bodies come and go, vague shapes
Defined by rustlings in the black,
Faces floating ghosts, masks smiling, grim, in between
Conversations drifting currents around rocky shores
Incomprehensible yet demanding, insistent
Inviting, but the address is lost, the directions
Seem to be in a foreign language.

He’s not really here or there, out of phase
The dial tuned just out of sync
A whole world of in betweens
Caught in the middle of point A to B
Möbius twisting, the cat forever in that box
Tires spinning out forever, still in motion
As a billion moving pictures flicker past.

The stories gather like storm clouds on a lazy tongue
Thick, pouring out in streamers of blue smoke haze
Littering the floorboards, curling up at the edges
Leaves and old photographs
Pinned wriggling between dime-store paperback
Yellowing pages, leaved through, well thumbed
Favorite passages recited prayer beads.

They aren’t his stories, those dried up long ago
Back when his tongue rusted to the roof of his mouth
He just gathers, stitching them together
Her shy smile to his lonely fumbling
Their boisterous revelry to his towering silence
Fingers calloused from needling onion skins
Piles of manuscript, instruction manuals for disused objects.

No rhyme, no reason, dispatches
For disinterested commanders,
From no mans but his land, a pilgrims travel guide
The points of interest among drifting bodies
Sliding past upon the sidewalk banks
The living, the dead, the dreamers
All with stories waiting to be gathered.

Warning, May Cause Increased Heart Rate, Sudden Shortness of Breath and Possibly Blood Rushing From One Place to Another Place

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 12, 2011 by beautifulimposter

So, I wrote a poem about sex.   I know, I know, poetry and sex, how shocking, how scandalous, but I thought I would give it a good try.  I am rather excited about this piece as A) it has been far too long since I have written anything and this is a particularly good piece, something in my mind that stands on par with “Here There Be…” as far as quality of work is concerned, and B) it is the most satisfied I have ever been writing something that at least borders on the erotic.  I have played about with poems whose underpinnings were sexual but always seemed to distant from the passion involved and I really hope this one succeeds in its objective to produce uncontrolled arousal in the reader, although I will settle for slightly flushed.  Anyway, without more beating about the bush nor gilding the lily, here is my newest piece, fresh from my fevered brain to your eager, ravenous eyes my lascivious readers one and all.

The heat holds the city like a lover

Palpable hunger stirring the blood

Dark velvet whispers pulling, enticing, cajoling you out from the furnace of your room

Luring you only into the swelter of the streets

With the barest hint of a promise of finding another to burn with you.

On the streets a fever of sound and motion

Neon maze coiling garish bright

Thump and roar of musical chaos blending to subsonic hum

That pumps blood, moves limbs, pulls at loins

The sharp metal tang of foundry air undercut with something raw, animal

A potent draught, hitting anyone with a pulse hard, sweet, and low.

You dive head first into the waiting mouth of a club

Outlines of bodies in motion drawn in cold blues and hot reds from bar sign lights

Clothes clinging to flesh and leaving no illusions

Sweat gleaming, carving trails over and under

Intimate, tantalizing

A thousand paths for for all the possible eyes, fingers, lips to trace.

In the thick of it all

Visceral movement, ecstatic, lost, found

By other bodies thick in the crush, press and flow

Surge pound like honey wine surf

Ending pressed belly to belly with a shadow of dangerous curves

Balanced on the thin blade edge of the longing and the release.

The mouth spits two back out where one came in, one leading by knot of fingers

Bright eyes glance, hunger grin of wicked full lips

Rushing past, around, through, casting bold looks furtively

Dark stairway panting, fall together, press dangerous close

Tongues taste brief salt, then part, whirling back to the climb

The inviting darkness at the top aching to be filled.

A memory of clothes then nothing but skin

Sweet flesh all hues in the dark

Fingers, breathe running over eachother

Tangles of arms and legs and twisted sheets,

Symphonies of moans, sighs, rising, falling arias

Hands clutch spasm, teeth taste blood, hot copper bright on the tongue

Rising, clawing skyward straining to the final perfect arch, bodies tension holding the curve of the night sky…

…Falling back and back, down and down and down

So very far, fathoms deep and dark buried

Icarus crash into oceans of blood and tears and wine

Littering a small dark room somewhere, anywhere

With scatterings of feathers and petals

Covering bodies still as death, holding, trembling, clinging oh so very tight

In the dark, in the heat, in the city.