Stream of consciousness #15

stop now baby
and a light’s not on in the cittadel
we can keep our arms entangled if we stop
and breathe
lost lights
and embers
filtering through
the darkness of the lost
and we pretended it was all
for naught
lovers
likers
of the french and folly of friends
we could forever be ascending
into the makeshift trees
I
am just a lollipop
you can
be a stranger and still love me
because I do
love everyone except the few
I am so open that
maybe in three months I won’t have the money to do
love love in a scene of a movie
love in the scene of a movie
traumatized legs moving
through a waterway
france,
the waterway
and a beautiful mess was I was I
a beautiful mess was I.

x x x x x x

no stop way can deceive me
I’m cunning, yes I’m cunning
and a stunning young genius am I
I long for the day when the winterway
will echo a strange ever trance
and watch as I move to the dance
the road way is jammed and my hand
is tropical
la Traviata l’amore
stupid inflections of speech
and beer dropping out of reach
smashing onto the floor
creaking up the ash door
feigning exaustion,
tied to the motherload
and screaming about
the water.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Advertisement

Track no. 1

Sprinter
god that’s fast
is that a track?
or a sand swept up through
my back?
Fast splash
or your
eyes blue water
covering the floor
the track is
muddy and I can’t
run anymore and
suddenly I
can’t function because my
vision is obstructed by
your eyes
which is the sky
which is the air outside.

I have been coronated
into the breathing earth
by some mother-goddess
dripping in myrrh
and yet
the sand dunes
and forest greens
don’t quite see
that blue
I’m aching to spew
all over the
afternoon.

sipping sunday
through the pink straw
I stole
I feel a bit older
and stupid because
the sky is there
just mocking me,
might send me somewhere
it can’t afford to
fly to
and suddenly
it was all a rehashed parody
and I’m wet on the gym floor
and I’m shaking
and I’m asking you
why,
WHY,
WHY

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Bouquet Of Souls

hope
in the form of
white garlands
and scented rose
when the floor froze
as I gazed
at your touch:
I’m not asking for much.
I’m not asking for much.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Lemon Meringue Pie

Lemon Meringue
Tang so
complex you
rush to the nearest bus stop and
see a stranger passerby
Lemon Meringue
Apple Pie.

Look into his eyes
see the faint taste of surprise
as you meet his guise
dashing,
the stop won’t stay
and you have to pay
the bus fare fee
make it down the highway free
flee, and
make it to the lonely street
stop
and savor, savor sweet
Lemon Meringue pie.

Black forest cake
dense,
nothing has been found
with such immense
strength we’ve
circumnavigated stars
to find such recompense.

Each new creation,
a new surprise
I spies
another pair of eyes
black tousers
sleek ebony collars
maybe on a whim I’ll
catch my dollars
inside the bus window
flapping like a flag
of unnoticed surrender
to my own
unnoticed
prayer;

Maybe that should get me there.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

The Bottom of the Stairs

supposed to be in bed
maybe, slipping from the bed
ordering my side lunch-ins and
breakfasts in bed
is how I wish to think of you
a laissez faire smile
the smell of coffee
and perhaps
redemption
from the city street noises
that keep me up at night.

I’ve lived on stone hard floors
and maple leaf cots
thrown together by girls
burnishing their side bangs
blushing,
at the looks.
oh, no, of course not
I have to live here
they might explain
humbly gesturing to the array of
blankets
at the bottom of the stairs.

it is one AM
a time reserved
only for poets.

at two AM
I was dreaming
of you.
and perhaps,
I was still naïve about
life
but how else
was it supposed
to be viewed?

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Paint

Paint on the lawn
leading me to your house
the fake house
covered
peeling paint
pink paint
pots of paint and pain,
the strikes of rhythm drum again
and i should walk back home from your
fake
house.

Summer in a frenzy
a heatwave guided by
false light
heady
boys picking up girls like
flys swatting in the sunlight
searing sand dunes and
old desert tunes
soft, simple and stark
I should have run the
bath tub
cold, cold running water.

In the porch
illuminated by
patches of the moon
she’s consumed
by the sweet notes
keeping her alive
and shoving saltwater
out from her far off looking
eyes–
he was too good
he didn’t care
he didn’t know
he wasn’t there

paint on the lawn
glinting in the dawn
and singing
oh sweet melody
why should I care
If I wasn’t even ready?

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry