beat me at the 4a.m read

i see a page that gives
words once as progeny
becoming blue scented nothing,
perched over it
in a damp saffron autumn
umbrella a discreet protection,
i had bathed in those dreams
yearning to be magellan
seeking
beyond the evil trolls,
petals in the forest
delicate uncut,
giving kisses on the souls
which resonate to those who are dead,
strawberry meadows
by the river
tiny seeded red,
dont go asleep
or you will miss
the elephants post themselves
about the pillar,
returning the hopeless
as is the passionate,
consuming beyond sainthood and glory,
arriving back
to a turned page
with fingers that have ancient tremors

Velimir Khlebnikov – Incantation By Laughter

velimir khlebnikov

Olga Orozco- No Doors

With burning sands styling a number of fire over time,

law with a wild animal lurking danger from its burrow,

with vertigo looking up,

your love is kindled but a lamp in the middle of the night,

with small fragments of a world consecrated to idolatry,

with the sweetness of sleep with all your skin covering the cost of fear

in the shadow of leisure tenderly opened a range of celestial meadows,

did everyday loneliness I have.

My loneliness is made of you.

Take your name on your side of stone

in tense silence where they can play all the melodies of hell;

walk beside me with your empty step,

and has, like you, that look that I’m going to look farther each time,

yesterday to a glare that dissolves in tears, in ever.

The doors to my left as one leaves the heir to a

                   [Realm of anyone who goes out and never comes back.

And it grew by itself

feeding on these herbs that grow on the edges of memories

and on stormy nights produce mysterious mirages

scenes with the best bonfires fed fevers.

Well I’ve seen people with blurred malls who sacrifice love

-Invincible characters marble, blind-absorbed as the distance,

or deploy in the middle of a room that rain falling seaside

away in another part ¨,

where you will be filling the bowl with water a few years of neglect.

Sometimes blowing on me with a south wind

a stormy song that suddenly breaks into a broken throat groan of bliss,

or try to delete a piece of ragged hope

goodbye that you wrote with the blood of my dreams in all crystals

to smite everything I watch.

My loneliness is all I have of you.

Howl with your voice in every corner.

When named with your name

grows like a sore in the darkness.

And a sunset up in front of me

that cup of sky was the color of wet poplar and in which

                            [We have drunk the wine of eternity each day,

broke and not knowing, to open the veins,

for you were born as a god of his splendid duel.

And he could not die

and his look was that of a madwoman.

He opened a wall

and walked into this room with a room that has no outputs

and where you’re sitting, staring at you in another life like my solitude.

John Fante A Sad Flower In The Sand (documentary )

Denise Levertov – Olga Poems

William S Burroughs – The Junky’s Christmas

Franz Kafka’s It’s a wonderful life

Peter O’Toole – Rare Dublin Theater Article

fierce candles

winters thorns bury deep
flesh pierced by that uneased dark
until candles dripping pale
tore aside the emptiness
illuminating dust
and a heart enclosed deep beneath a breast
her warmth reflected in those eyes,
he would embrace,
beyond all walls a snowy temper raged
sweeping alongside doors
muffling all that was brutal,
in hold and secure
dawn was a long way off
a thousand years would pass
before a few magic smitten would know
stars would die
and planets turn
winding in secrets so human,
lips tremble withholding so many words
that he would say
and she would reply
as a chosen wonder,
that urge carnal became a vapor
glimmer of hope,
and futures peace at stake,
memory fickle put upon pages
of a shameless scrawl
edited by many kings
dissolved into legend and myth
springs reaction would reveal much,
embrace over
fragile reflections and shadows
for the movement so vividly intact
would leave so many
damaged echoes
that conflict is inevitable

http://dversepoets.com/

camomile artist

this voice of the river
pressed wavelets to the hull,
kisses gentle
as the heat of day waned,
there is an island
he took himself to
and revealed not to many,
his sister stretched her hand
to the surface,
his obsession that yellow obsession
of scrawled canvas
becoming painfully light
each coming and passing day,
his work confessional
to a degree that
his lips where bitten into scabs
and fingernails worn,
absinthe stained his teeth
and confounded the workings
of an already fractured mind,
he wanted to show
one person the accommodation
crooked walls hung with works
salons would faint at,
not his usual pastorals and portraits,
this was a diminished reality
with a lot of truth
his sarcasm would not yield
afraid of her reaction
progressed slowly
yesterday still had a grip,
he could not release
approaching jetty
tremors worked in his arms,
breathing quickened,
when the moon set
he would be revealed
and her pain would be no loss,
when the rains came
he would return alone
clouds would cover the moon
and deny reflection and illumination
there was a lot more to be done

John Singer Sargent – Autumn on The River 1889