Burning Thoughts

Candle

~

Where art thou hiding —
perhaps, ‘neath a lonely willow . . .
maybe amongst its swaying tendrils?

Or near the shadow’s edge —
where darkness threatens the way . . .
Come, awaken this slumbering heart!

Where art thou, I cry forth–
to the shy, grey fox crouching low . . .
Are you there, betwixt those briars cold?

O come now, sweet lover of flame —
perplex a lux of reason for me . . .
I beg thee, come torch my shadow-box of poetry!

[at least then I shan’t read what used to be]

© 2016 blue angel

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O Muse

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O Muse

You first touched me while I dreamt.
Dreamt in fallen feathers of a youth spent.
Like a mist gathering in the northernmost edge,
your words laced fire ’round my careful points.

Jagged and yearning —
A slip from a rhythmic tongue.
You parted pages ‘gainst my exposed bones,
and I began to feel that infernal burn.

Then came the shadows of your pouring song,
coiling ’round my inkwell, again and again.
Grasping quills splintered, I chased after
your tangle of adages.

Ablaze in Pyrrhic sage,  I encircle, surmount, supp
‘pon the wilderness you forged ‘neath covenant ruins.
– o how I gasp behind these eyes blinded by your vision.

Return, I beg thee, O Muse to inspiration’s parch and wither.
Soothe the frayed edges of these words I’ve strewn together.

© 2016 blue angel

~

Author’s note: “Poems, to me, are always a strange creation, and when they earmark a certain truth, they become a finer indulgence.”

For inspiration: “I stepped outside the pressurized bubble to see the world suspended in its own chill of cosmic wonder.

O how I shivered…”

© 2016 blue angel

 

[Star wounded skies]

runish thorns

on the sleeve of clarity,
i sought a place extending
amidst an earthly terrace –

unable to breathe.

i surrendered to him ‘neath a gilded horizon
where velvet cattails crossed their swords.
tempting my lips to purr –

captivation arose.

after his shadow unraveled my song
whispers of amour were chased afar
nourished not, nor to be sworn –

reflecting nuance, he is a polished stone.

my trembling oath goes untold
a sun-kissed curse, i gathered from his field
vast and full, a hoard of sharpened quills  –

my mind seeks along a ragged ridge.

star-wounded skies beseech
a man, a woman, a thrill
i attest in knowing –

rain erodes indefinitely, darling.

come lie with me, before the moon pales
among the withering blooms
allow our lips to savor this –

poetry bound in runish thorns.

© 2014 blue angel

[The Last Candle]

woman-with-candle

[She wore I love yous like cheap lipstick]

November’s exile
feels like a cosmic rendering
of self-serving immunity.

Aware the obliteration of emotional depth
is imminent in the shallows.

Still my conscience warred the coming rain.

To unhinge from reality and its tasteless virtue,
I excuse myself from the vulgar feast
then lean from the shadows,
to blow out the last candle.

I trace my fingers along
the darkness of forgotten words
between lovers, written a long time ago –
I tumble inside that starless night,
marooning myself within
the semiotic musings and moon-spun trysts
only to reverse the river for my pleasure of unfeigned lust.

[And there is where the omen is carved in my image]

I know what lonely feels like.

© 2015 blue angel

Artwork by Andrew Atroshenko

[Serpentine Whore]

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‘Round and ’round we go
where I slice, only one will know –

She crawls near my shadow to pray,
beckoning forgiveness–begging empathy.
I gaze expressionless at her staggered act,
then stoke my pit of coals while my sympathy falls slack.
The submission to insanity, intrigues me.
Her stained verse is stacked for a delusional deity,
but my pithy greed is a curse she’ll always seek, or is it need?

Hmm . . .
Stand, serpentine whore!
I chain her to the wall of my sick illusion,
I grin, admiring the end of my branding rod, aglow.
She’ll learn the price for treason.

Turn your eyes from me, voiceless fiend.
I have your tongue for my pleasure only.
For agony, you will give your measure.

(Against her ass I press my rod and hold it)

I won’t release until I smell her flesh melting.
Now all can see, you belong to me, whore!

Weeping is a lost art.

© 2015 blue angel

[Slavish Chords]

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A vintage vase sits center the table,
cut crystal bearing no floral décor.
Still it dares to catch the sun,
recklessly scattering fragments of light
throughout the spacious room.
The dainty flecks of starlit charm
lave across a curve; a feminine form.

My tempter sits center the room
poised and naked; a beauty stilled.
I nod and she begins to tease cello strings
and press her breasts against the warm, smooth wood.
Her thighs tighten ’round it, bracing the instrument.
She closes her eyes and fills the air with slavish chords.

My hunger surges from my center,
with every clef met by urgent bow strums.
Her hair elicits my desire as it streams down
her body like an elixir of love.
I succumb to the privy seduction
and approach her–halting the euphony.
I set the instrument aside, and lift her chin.

She longs to be center of my attention;
a fragrant vision to taunt my senses.
She kneels down–daring to surrender.
I grasp the back of her hair, next to her scalp
and swiftly lift her up to kiss her gasping mouth.
Can she endure the ravaging that sates my thirst?
I’ll sup from her spring like a ravenous fiend.

(Only reckless poetry would dare to present an empty vase)

© 2015 blue angel

[Capillus de Sanguine ]

Lillith

Hair of Blood;
the unveiling nightshade,
cast down your bedeviling eyes!
Could you bewilder me
through incantations disguised?

The wending path bestirs with
slight intrigue, as it stretches
and stitches, yet
another desolate scene.

Quicken your steps,
rush with panting breaths!
For the wellspring has sprung
bejeweling the crown of illusion.

Upcurve your lips, widen your eyes
for inside the dreamscape,
my serpents thrive.

Arch your spine and lower your tongue.
Touch the ground and
leave it burned.

To recapture innocence,
you must obscure the descent
and cast your dares into the oblivion.

Crawl to me, and bury your face
against my flesh, so I can see.

I gaze down at your wounds, and smile,
then look back at the shadows and growl.

Only the thick of night may witness,
my need to feed upon such afflictions.

© 2015 blue angel