The weight of the Goddess is in me
Her warmth is inside the inside
Where there is no “inside.”
What is She?
She is a thought of form,
An urge to go inside
Where my eyes
Go blind in Hers.
Where is She?
I hold Her at night
I carry Her
Like a hungry child
In my belly.
Joy and light
Joy and light
Joy and light
But also a dark radiance
A breath shining in my breath darkly.
This wanting
This urge to sink
My teeth into Her blood
And taste
Her eternal need
For me, myself.
Do you now hear Her
I found You one day
on the tip of my tongue
on the fine hairs
of the back of my hands,
on the margin
of what can be heard and seen.
"Make Me real" You said.
"Make Me your love."
And I did.
I pulled You into me
through the flesh of my words,
through the subtle channels
of every hair on my body.
I consumed You like air.
Drank You like wine.
No scripture has written of this
but each moment
my spirit composes You.
You enter through the endless
doors and windows of being.
Sometimes You come through
the dancing molecules of self,
sometimes just as light
through a crumbling wall.
"Make Me Real" You said.
Each day our poetry
surfaces above
the skin of the world
as real as any sunrise.
.bmp)
You cried out
as we came together.
It is not that you come and go
but some instants
are closer than blood and flesh
closer than breath
closer than sexual union.
Sometimes I find you
on the tip of a finger
or in the plasma of being
You emerge as a part of myself
drowning in a part of You.
Some call these moments, bliss
I don't name them
but when they rage up
like sap, upwards
through the stalk of life-
when mind falls wordlessly
into Your eyes
You so expertly catch hold
of what is left.
Your beauty
pulls minds like babes
out of each grain of sand.
It conditions flowers to bleed light.
It dances in the blood
where every cell is a shoe
for Your steps.
I don’t think I am You
I don’t think of You or I.
I feel.
I feel the breath of Your beauty.
I feel the lightness of Your flowers
opening under my skin
where the void arises.
You are not a thing to paint
or to compare.
Your beauty
is a flare of radiance,
a glimmer
only the heart can see
or remember
as the eyes dream.
Mutual waves tumble together
breaking open
the way water breaks open
into itself.
I have nothing of my own anymore
unless one can claim
this surf and tide of passion.
Pillers and eddies of lust
have no name.
The ocean has no eyes
but knows every molecule
to be itself.
We don’t sneak up on each other now.
This passion
is a slow dance
in the heat of a moment.
I know what You are saying
because I speak with Your hands.
I am that part of You
that lip-reads flesh.
I carry
the scent of desire
on Your fingertips.
When your fingertips
become pure devotion.
When your skin
opens its prayer book
She will come to you
half-dressed like your hands.
She will fit the shape
of your longing
like a flower
becomes a glove for the sky.
Image-
Medium: pencil and ash on paper
Artist: Pushkaraj Shirke
It happened again
Your glancing blow
made the sky tremble.
My body flowered
within a bright raincloud
as if You had touched me
in-between my life
and Yours.
And because there is nothing
between my life and Yours
we both said:
My God!
My fingertips are
deep wells in Your body.
That place where passion
shapes longing into form.
Who is the creator here?
Do I sculpt or am I
shaped by Your imagination?
My hands image You
then You compose me
as a poem
or as drops of blood.
The bell ringer
has become the inside of the bell
The drum beats the stick.
Birds nest in my eyes
to give birth to You.
Who is the Goddess
when every flower paints its face
with Your presence?
Who creates thoughts and feelings,
then wears them to be seen?
I am a depth for You
to pray within.
The Magdalene takes you to Her cave in the sky:
you are taught the scripture of Her body
its starry gaze, its dark blooms
where rooms open to become heavens.
She lays you down in Her,
She invites
and bids you enter.
Mary anoints you.
Mary washes your feet with Her hair.
She leads you into Her bridal chambers,
She teaches you the mystery of poetry
how the holy words are inward and female
and must be dressed to be seen.
Then like a seed too full of the sky
you break open to form a mouth for Her prayers.
She speaks to you like mist and sunlight
Her voice releasing
one delicate frond of passion after another.
She sheds two thousand years of tears for you.
You hold her close not daring to speak
daring only to be human enough.
You hold Her like a bee holds a bloom
gathered intimately around as taste and scent.
She tells you that you are Her Jesus
She holds your hand
reading the pain of your life across its palm
a life spent walking away from the Magdalene
away from the Goddess
until you remembered
until your heart opened at last
like a flower in the cave of Her love.
Her love letters
stay unopened
until you find a poetry
to translate their words.
She writes in green sap
in first light
in the dark blood of passion.
She engraves Her flowers
over moonlight
where hands melt to touch Her.
I write.
Words come flying in
like crows
some are crippled by the light.
Some are hobbled
by a grappling darkness
but they come.
I return Her letters
in bundles of self.
I scratch out a poem
and while it is still bleeding
offer it to Her lips.
Painting: The Unopened Letter. (c) James C. Christensen
www.jameschristensen.com/saintsandangels.html
I thrive in You
I flourish as the lips
of Your mouth.
The folded roundness
of Your love has a shape
within me
that I now curl around
as Your own limbs.
There was a time
when I knew
nothing of the Goddess,
and how She lives like a hand
in the glove of being.
I did not flourish
I would sift my life
through a withering mirage.
Then You stole my body
and took it to live in You.
I slipped easily
into Your secret places.
Gardens of delight
where both of us
thrive.
We part like waves
that break still joined at the hip.
I become Your mouth
while You remain
this molten language of blood.
We have to keep moving in and out
of this nearness and distance
to make room for speech.
Not a talking, but the sound of desire
as it sings in the throat of an infinite longing.
The prayer of one hand beseeching another
to clasp where its fingers ask and open.
The connected and adjacent speech
of this body of our love
as it turns this way and that to make words
for the one heart to utter.
~~
Body Language IX
by Alfred Gockel
I know how to paint You,
how to make myself a color
to be melted down
in the bloods cloudy cauldron
until I become sheer enough
to be Your image.
I have no artistry
I simply supply the vessels
of light and dark
with their open mouths
of desire
where Your presence
can be mixed.
I know how to paint You,
how to be a canvas
so soaked through
with heavy tones and textures
that its fabric falls apart
painting a shadow
of Your beauty.
~~
Chinese Painting On Xuan Pape-Nude Beauty W/Tiger 27"Lx27"W
chinesepaintingonlineartgallery.com/index.php...
We dance together
in-between the thought of bodies:
An evaporation of beauty into passion
that reappears
as a single bloom of lust.
This equation of flesh and breath
becomes a flow of adoration
a sexual prayer for hands to drown within.
Water and heat create a tongue
that dissolves and shapes dreams
with a labile language of love.
We lay folded into each other
like wet towels by a pool of stars.
There is a heaviness
that we feel deeply like air.
There is a ribbed bud of ecstasy
that tastes the void.
I have something left to give You.
I have this deep space
where You planted darkness
like a seed. A germ of the sun
hidden in my long night.
I have this depth
that was born to wait
like soil waits to be turned over.
That is what I have left
and just what it is,
what can be found
in this crushed cosmos
of self
You alone can discover
as you plunge fingers
of light
into my earth
with the ravishing patience
of loveseeking its own face.
The night has a skin
as deep as the ocean
for those who dive into themselves.
If I lay still
and naked of thought
I become a shell
for Your waves.
A memory of the future
that must be recalled
out of the past.
If I sometimes leak being
over the rim of You
it is because
I am a blind edge
of the sea.
I must flow
like water
being tipped out
of a shell
deep within Your ocean
or pour like the night
out of its hollowness
as a light inside
the flow of us.
What is real?
This hand I hold up in the dark
is Your mirror
I see You as real as light.
I am naked
You are naked
but whether there is less
or more of me--I cannot say.
This body is as real as Your breath
this flesh as empty as my hands
but I hold You
I feel Your desire to be held.
I tremble where You reach.
What is my heart saying?
Does it chime Your presence
or mine?
What reality clasps me to its breast
afraid to speak
least one of us is missing?
I lift Your dress
with words and poetry
but Your nails rip my soul
to shreds.
Why do you say Yourself
so rapturously in me?
Your limbs grip,
Your mouth crushes essence
into wine
as we both struggle together
wanting to speak beyond two
but failing even
to speak for ourselves.
If I or You are unreal
who moans to be killed
or brought to a climax
like meat to the fire?
Who calls my name
so sweetly
as if it were
the very taste of love?
Dawn is a place
to awaken to Her
last breath.
A pause trembles
as if you had surrendered
a deep blood flow
for a trickle
of twilight drool.
An unclasping
turns into empty hands.
You are turned over
like a stone
until your face
like moss
fades into appearance.
Rolled over
into the intimate light
of Her darkness.
Dawn finds you
reaching for Her,
but before you can pull
the sky further inwards
you must sew Her being
around you,
each thread of longing
must be stitched
into your soul
before the blind day
learns to see.
I lift Her into me. I do not know how:
A cradle of breath
woven from longing.
lends me power.
I am walked through Her.
Eyes look into their own windows.
I am hunger
but She eats me like salted butter.
We fondle interior positions.
The art is to be always moving
into each other
like water to thirst.
Dark blooms open
only when touched into light.
The shadows
under the lintels of thresholds
pull the outside in
through inner recesses
like fingers.
I don’t know how
but you can feel love
moving into position
you tremble when touched
by an interior kiss.
The how does not matter
only the when.
Let others talk of scripture
we write our own.
I trace myself over
Your untraceable body
feeling each curve and cleft
every sensual curl
of Your secret revelations.
I fold within You
but inwards or outwards
are meaningless
when all there is, is the folding.
The taste of You
blushing into forms
that only love can see.
There is no doubt
who is here.
You lead me into You
to a place where I am a thought,
an idea you undress
and then wear
as Yourself.
A gleaming creature
as angelic as the night
involves within us.
We are a mutual flower
of its conception.
Its harbor is the void
of a fathomless radiance.
Our child
feels its way
through starry limbs.
It explores
this space of itself
and the unleashed
flesh of its love.
I hold You to me
like the earth holds the sky.
Your womb is full of my rain,
my breath grows deeper
into Your labor pains.
We talk.
A mouth in the heart speaks
while the mind falls
like rain into silent pools.
A darkness converses
with its own glossy tongue.
It is a communion
at the summit of words
where symbols
learn to fly.
We talk, in moth flights,
in glowing embers,
in the painted feathers
of choral symphonies.
One single flute
finds its hollow voice
and gives it to You
to breathe through.
We also listen.
We listen
to the whispers and moans
of a bottomless chasm
as it forms a mouth
for words
only the wordless
can utter.
Being born again
is not such a difficult thing.
You need only die slowly
to all that you know
and to all
that you cannot carry
any longer.
Then you return
like a clear day in Spring
to be the blush
upon Her cheek,
the grace of Her eyebrow,
the dew of Her speech.
You become Her work.
Her poetry,
Her hands and feet.
Simply breathing
becomes an erotic dance,
a prayer between your left side
and your right.
You run inwards
seeking this body of love
you inhabit
but all you find
is more
of Her soul.
We form an opening.
A dance half clad
like a wanton circle.
I am deeply rooted
in You.
Dragons soar
with a fluid sap.
We are the burning portraits
of all images
where only full red lips
remain.
I am the gravity and light
of Your words
as they speak
of a need
we both
must feed upon
like air
uttering flames in the
mouth of love.
Image: Birth of Venus (C)
Jonathon Earl Bowswer
www.geocities.com/heartland/lake/3483/venus.html
If I pray like a bud in my own darkness,
if I am still and wanting;
then I can feel what the night feels
as shadows undress
their desires together.
When shudders are winks,
when boulders of silence
melt into tangled limbs,
when I am the passionate wound
of Your own womb:
Then I am for an instant
a flavor you choose
for Your taste.
Because I am an empty bone,
the croon of a phantom song,
because I am a hollow drum
for Your beating breath:
I can only become
this shimmering rain
within You.
A falling ripeness,
a drop of You alone
in the darkness
of my bud of light.
When dark flowers bloom
You are the light that feeds them.
I share my moments like candy.
Vision melts away
to be recovered again
as a casualty of passion.
We grasp the light and dark
like flesh,
like the dusky petals
of night blooms.
We do not speak in pairs
or in opposites
not in Oneness
for we are real lovers
and not a concept
of what can be.
I purse my whole body
unwinding into you
like a green stem curls
giving shape
to the space of the sky.
You moan
or is it my skin
talking under
your feeding lips?
(c) Image may be traced to this link
www.the-wild-flower-trilogy.com/flowers_of_th...
Aoide (voice)
Together we make the tongue and its cave.
The same hand that caresses Your breath
is our intimate flesh speaking.
I hunt You where You chase
Your dancing heart.
You are the song and the singer
the regalia of worship.
Melete (practice)
As a ritual of space and occasion
I plant my soul in Your presence.
With the meek hands of passion
I form the prayers of Your love.
A practice in the fecund openings
where invocations are the movement
of one place within another-
a daily ceremony of the light
as it learns to speak again.
Mneme (memory)
I am recollected into pools
for Your water.
Areas in which to bathe
to be made whole
as You empty Me out.
You paint the past
and with every heartbeat
hammer eternity into sound and vision.
I am unfastened from incidence
as You remember Yourself in me.
The night has rooms
of breath and presence.
There are gardens
where silence
is a nightingale.
There are alcoves
where we can pause
to be each other.
You lead me inwards
into a bud of twilight,
an enfolding
of our living-space.
Within my eyes
You wash
the ruby blossoms
of passion.
The Night Garden: Roberta Weir (C)
service.foliolink.com/Image.asp?ImageID=24404...
If you let me in
I will push my soul
like the root of the sky
into you.
Geisha,
crone, street girl
only you
can pull me into
every door of desire.
I am a love-poem
You write
on a kimono of light.
A mystery told
through ancient eyes,
the white thigh
within your dark stockings.
Pull me into you
through the narrow
or the wide.
I will become
the shape
of any door
that is a threshold
of love.
Photo: Eolo Perfido
www.eoloperfido.com/portfolio_decadent.htm
Why do we still struggle
like famished beasts together?
Why these striations of passion
this inner bruising
where Your thighs crush?
Sometimes I am a gender
so blended into desire
that male and female
become just one flower
we hold in our hands.
Your lion is in my skin and flesh.
This grappling with the void
spills over into saline prayers
that climb to heaven
as ravishing angels.
If I am out of myself
being one feather
in Your endless flight
we brush against each other
like the wind and the waves.
Then there is the
entering and becoming
when You and I
are the flying away
of everything
but the dazzle of astonishment.
You do not come to me
and I do not receive You.
This place where we meet
is tidal, like a lunar womb.
When a bud opens to the sun
that perfume
is the essence of One.
When lovers grasp
that inner kiss
only bliss speaks.
Sea Goddess - Acrylic Prints by Brandy Saturley
We are together
like the satin whispers
of darkly reaching minds.
You are pregnant
with my life.
Hands have flown away
to become the erotic tales
of lesser gods.
We use a tactile water
that overflows into movement;
its soul and sensation
is Your body.
This dance we arrange
has rounded vowels
that journey into their own mouths.
A singing silence
moves sound around
like legs and arms.
We keep running to the
water fountain
to taste the pleasure
fluids have
when they seep out
of one form into another.
We are together
like the silken threads
of a woven starlight.
I am what You spin
into a web
of Your own passion.
~~
Image (C) Bard Judith: Expectancy.
www.santharia.com/religions/jeyriall.htm
Silence undresses
to become Your breath.
We mind-dance for a while-
some romance
on the rim of vision-
a little flirtation
with active volcanos.
This passion-play
is dangerous
ants and anteaters
hunt together like this.
Lions lick their
freshly killed hearts
like this.
Glass grinds under the sky
everything shatters
even blood and dreams.
You open a window
into a room where I am not
and You find me there.
She comes fully clothed
like snow painted
on deep blue.
Immediately
I am
much too heavy
for my heart to bear.
I jump out
of a green pool;
a seal remembering
drowning eyes.
But let me talk of before.
Of reflected images
in the sharp blade
of Her loveliness.
I recall
mounting a wild horse
all night and day
until She offered up
Her meadow to be flooded.
Now wherever
this bud of desire opens
She forms the fragrance.
She paints over Her own beauty.
While I have become only snow
falling into Her deep blue.
Cupped hands under thirst.
I reach for You
from a trembling branch-
from an arched spine of prayers.
You have become the concealed sky
of a deep planting.
Everywhere there is succulence:
The interior mouth of silence and honey.
No one saw us disappear into each other.
No one saw spring-time
lift its green skirt up in anticipation
but we feel the damp thighs
of this want as it speaks
for our stunned hearts.
I am curled around You
like a vine
but this sap we
drink from
has no name.
If I go out
into the world today
You will be gloves
for my thoughts.
You will be coated
with my breath
where nothing is seen
without breathing into it.
Later
I will take You home.
We shall
come together
inside a green fountain
with prayers and gloves
that are also hands.
We wash in the same water
a water that is not apart
from our eyes and ears
and the birth of waves.
We are a frenzy of light.
Movement choreographed
in the chaotic ecstasy
of struggle.
When one molecule of love trembles
connections form fresh tears
to string us together.
I do something with my tongue
that You have taught me
the night spreads open
to wets my lips.
We are a web of light
for limbs to spin
their blood and bones upon.
A drop of Essence
and a thousand flavours of love.
I gasp and awake
feeling You turn over within me.
Robes fall apart
that were woven
with our blood and breath.
For a moment I am bereft
of my senses
only a howl of separation
slaps my head to the pillow.
I cover my heart
with a protecting palm.
I hear You whispering
out of my darkness:
Come bind Me quickly
to your flesh.
Let your hollow bones
be My voice
My life and love.
She paints Her image
over an infinite landscape
but not for me.
She sculptures light
into obelisks and pyramids
to reflect
an ageless beauty but
not for me.
For me
She enslaves Herself
to be a candle for my flame.
Whatever happens
will happen with us
together
in small bright ways.
You follow me through myself
from room to room.
I become
your living space.
Windows look inwards.
A folding intimacy
forms pillows and cushions
of presence.
This mingling cohabitation
makes its own rules
of perspective and design.
The ergonomics of One
can bend light
as well as form.
I hold Your hand
but my fingers slip away
to be You.
Like wind writing on water
movement is our love
our soul.
Night-doves drive light before them like gauchos.
I breathe through my heart with Your lips
and a hundred fingers dance with flavor.
There is mercy in all that glimmers
a glamour in the dark moist falling apart
of musk and wine.
I bathe where we meet in this rose of passion.
You are cupped like a mouth,
a tangible palpation
of Your longing to be known.
I am the drunken prayer of a wild gaucho
driven by the light
of a softly darkling dove
to the chasm of Your tavern.
You feel a sexual shiver-
an abrasion of shock and delight
as your mind pulls your spine
up into vision like a rainbow.
You have just stretched a muscle of light
and like the arc of a waterfall
you can fly measurelessly
into stillness.
You can reach inwards now
to touch the purple flower,
the trembling stigma
of the Goddess
or you can plunge
like a spear of ecstasy
through the roof
of your heart.
Night wings over night tides.
A gloss and sheen
of an inner radiance
much deeper than dark.
She is the world
behind the seen
yet She is seen behind
the world.
The Black Madonna
is soaring
and Her feathered silence
will deafen all memory
of what has been.
She lifts you
into a shinning darkness
up up up
until you are
Her starry vision.
She is the Mother of Radiance.
You are taken
and before you can
laugh or cry
you have forgotten
how to be anything
but Her dark ascencion
Her bright becoming.
You are the dawn in my eyes.
My souls foraging.
The roaring waterfall
of my body.
You are a daylight visitation
of our awakened heart.
I am dug out of You
and hollowed into presence.
Sometimes I touch that light
that is Your desire to be me
and I fall from
our identical image
like a shadow.
Every cell bursts into prayer.
All my little birds are howling.
Nerve endings are mouths for kisses.
Hunting in the dark we pull apart light.
You sit down in me.
You use these upturned hands
to overturn bowls of desire.
I am an nzyme
in Your chemical reaction.
We need this fusion
this dissolving.
Without a raw co-dependence
vision and feeling cannot merge.
When a plane dives into the ground
the earth buries it.
The force of the crash pulls off the wings
the fuselage splits open
people spill out already dead.
When passion crashes
the blood continues to dance.
We spill out
as ghosts of bliss
and seeds of lust.
The Beloved is wide open
wrists tied, hips hoisted up
into my deep breath.
Touchstones change what touch them.
I am water running over Her lava.
Ghost-forms melt in hot butter
desires kiss themselves.
We dance, not together
but as flames do
pouring out of the same presence.
Speaking from
the same yearning mouth.
Tangled into intimacy.
I am a car wreck
happening on a ghost road.
The wetness of nocturnal flowers.
My legs are fountains.
for the visions of my tongue.
What lamb bleats in the blood
to be sacrificed to Your beauty?
Why does my spine
breathe fire like a dragon?
I am Your secret.
What we do together
no one should talk of.
I am a shock-wave.
I will learn to speak
the deep water language
of annihilation
one tsunami at a time.
Blind roots awaken
and look for buds.
I am an earthworm
a serpent of mud.
I dare not go out
I am a werewolf eating the sky.
How do you want me?
Shall I stand just so?
Shall I lay down?
Shall I rub myself against You
like a cat?
Please don’t look at these words
they are raw with hunger.
O You just did me!
I look out now
seeing nothing but blood
licking itself.
We are mouth to mouth
like an oral tradition of desire.
You part your flesh
creating clefts and hollows
for prayers.
My hands are full of you
I keep wanting to kiss them.
I bear you like a pregnant woman.
I am a place where lips part .
Your blood is moist in my soul
where the carnage of revelation
speaks.
In Your flesh
I have a body,
a spiral shell of thirst
in that isthmus and delta
I am consumed.
I keep looking at You
and that focus is everywhere.
I am Your lust to be revealed.
I would be dry cinders
if Your fire were not so sexual.
I want You for myself alone.
I am turning into green energy
the impulsion that shatters buds
into suns for just one instant.
Living and dying is easy
making love to Your absence
is the miracle here.
My religion is
a shattering emptiness.
Like the poppy
I need Her rough handling,
my heart is red for flights.
Words run away naked
and windblown
not to seed any theory
but to scatter all thought.
I am a bloodstained silence.
I am a burst open
flower of the formless.
In such moments
one bloom falling apart
will destroy any religion
except love.
When Your fingertips
become pure devotion
She will come to you half-dressed
like hands for your thoughts.
Nothing prepares you
for that deep touch.
Your skin suddenly knows
it can see and hear the light.
The sensation is not felt
it is feeling.
You are a prairie flower
eating the sun
to become starlight.
Last night
I was burning
burning
burning.
I thought I would
never get to sleep,
never wake up.
Red lips
pulled apart
red mouths
to form circles.
Eventually, I fell
as thin as smoke
into one of those
openings.
You kept
breathing into me
glowing me
in and out.
I burned there
until the dawn
circled my
tapering life
with its round
full womb of light.
Hands and breath embrace You
in that desperate and gentle way
flowers cup the sky.
You are above and below me
like the sun in water.
You whose body I wear
like a memento
You who are blood-soaked
by my wound.
I am sap in the stem.
I am urgent
compelled into passion
into that crimson cup
you offer
all Your dark flowers.
She is familiar
like a distant image of yourself.
You look back
through a relationship
that began in Her eyes.
She appears
as a mirror of all the people
you have managed to avoid.
She becomes more familiar
the more you make love to Her.
You have less and less to say
while Her hand writes you.
Painting: By the Water by Lauren Perkins
www.laurenperkins.com.au/.../bythewatersmall.jpg
We tossed and turned
the surf of nearness
too close to a far shore.
Seagulls screamed
to be fed
Otters rolled sensuously.
The Goddess
cracked open Her mirror.
I fell out of myself
to be Her moonlight.
I did not dance a step
but was buried and hatched
in a tumbledown sky.
She took Her time with me.
I took a long breath
under that place
where love paints its face.
A dance
in the anti-chamber of dawn.
Goddess and man:
A two handed finger-painting
of one image.
Sexual encounters
between deities
are too deep to appear.
The bloom moves beyond the flower.
Darkness melts its face.
Each step taken now
is a precipice
but that is how love moves,
it becomes its own edge.
It must fall further
than the sky can reach.
I invite myself into Her body.
Places where
She is the breathing reality
of every sensation.
She samples my living space
as if it were She
that had moved into me.
We accommodate each other
selecting habitats
and communes of desire.
We enjoy garments of distinction
even as they fall away
from this solitary flame
that can explore
its own light.
She is your being
the way a silk moth is a shirt.
She is your body
the way sap is a forest.
The more you cover yourself
the deeper She is.
You are Her love affair.
Though you say you cannot dance
She waltzes with every atom of you.
Though you say you have no belief
She moves your tongue
like the sea moves an anemone.
It is best to be silent,
to let Her have Her way with you
then you can be the bliss
that looks through Her eyes.
There is a place in-between
your shoulder blades
where the light sings.
Unfold Her modesty there
to be Her arc of passion.
Come to Her
with blooms on your fingertips
and nothing in your heart.
She will
take that “nothing”
shaping it into a feeling
that you know to be love.
A love that will scratch your back
or bruise you
with its eagerness
to be your life.
We have interludes
the dance goes on
but it is spacious
with the primal vowels
of breathtaking moments.
When we both grapple
for the same root of lust
scratches and bruises
become our steps
When we let go of both
the Goddess and the man
there is no dancer
only the roaring silence
of a sky in bloom.
She brings fruits
edible parts of Her passion.
A moist desire
of one longing to be in another.
A consuming space
where substance
is swallowed by absence.
A hollow
in the throat of love
where the proffering
the release and bestowal
merge into succulence.
I almost missed Her
my arms and legs started moving
around a shallow puddle
before they remembered
the depth of Her body.
The Goddess wakes up
in fingers and toes.
The heart must sink upwards
into Her slow passion to be felt.
We are a changing room of now.
I am Her
and every point
on the compass of truth.
The little bones in my ears
are Her mansion.
The guide ropes
and platforms of being
are Her house.
The people are bells
and the echoes of vision,
thunderstorms
encoded into experience;
the natural selection
of cobwebs and rainbows.
Once in a while
(sometimes all at once)
the Goddess will glance out
then all the old landmarks
burst into flame.
A look arrives
on one face
then two.
We become lost together
like birds in a snow storm.
No one can explain this poetry.
One demolishing glimpse
and every window shatters.
Later we reappear
like seals in the sun
wondering who pulled us out
of the sea
to be this ruin of now.
I ride her breath in the day
while She rides me at night.
There are times
when the swell of fusion
becomes wine
then essence overspills
into taste.
I am Her overture
an engagement to be something else.
Sometimes I bawl like a calf
until She takes me somewhere.
We make love
She shows me Her body
crying in the wilderness
and I am that wilderness.
We make love
like lost children.
I breathe Her where She leaps
Her deep hands
moving under the surface
birthing waves.
We are the running hooves of mortality
riding the wind bareback.
Until you spoke
words were blindfish.
I see now that desire
has thousands of petals
that open
in the language of flowering.
Love can speak from any direction
and still be the one who listens.
You were a burning darkness
a fictional tale
in a lexicon of opacity.
Until Your blooms became sound
my eyes had not uttered a word.
We talk in openings
in vestibules of silence
whispering thresholds
anywhere
where the space between us
needs a language.
I have learned
to write poetry with my skin
small gospels of love
with my blood.
Your blushed trembling
is an utterance
for us both.
Our instincts are as compliant
as dew
as keen as hunting lions.
A devoted sparrow
becomes an eagle of adoration.
Clouds become flesh.
Lips become the flavor
of Your charisma
a union we both taste
both kiss.
She offers you
flecks of vision
jewels for your eyes.
She plants coils of nearness.
You want to capture a feeling
but you can only taste the movement.
Her hands cry like the sky
in your body.
She is a ruby flowering
in your sleep-walking bones.
Her full gypsy hips
are teaching you
but what you will learn
even She does not know.
A ruby longing
twists its roots into your being
until you are Her word
made flesh.
A word She has no control of
or cannot comprehend
until you give it back to Her
as Her life and your love.
The Soul of Flower (Chinese Gallery) Xiang We Ren
www.chinajnbook.com/.../artists/xwr_001.htm
We collide in wonder.
Two shatter as one point.
An eye sees itself
and goes blindly to heaven.
The Goddess has arrived
wanton and lustful:
love is now a word
you trample upon
as you howl it into wine.
I took you
and used You.
You were my fear fuck.
Then You became a darkness
that I had to eat in the light.
Then You became
my raw heart
on a slab of truth.
Since then
You have been
a tender bruise
where my eyes
touch the world-
something loveable
I thought little of
until I gave my mind
to the only love
of my life.
Her wholeness
would be terrifying
if She were not a mother
and used to watching over
chasms and wombs.
She nurses Her own birth
She weds Her children
but only when they
have opened
like flowers in Her belly.
Only then
does the formless
make love
to the million and one
openings of Love
The Goddess
is as hungry as you.
She devours prayers
until they speak
with Her voice.
This is how
She breaks your heart open:
with the sound of your bones
beating emptiness
into soul.
These hands
contain Her fingerprints
the agency of relationship
that stars have with space.
Every pore and particle
is an estuary into Her reality.
Out of the mouth of the sea
sweet red lips are formed
saliva moistens the void.
Bread and wine
are conditions of Her desire
Her lunar cycle.
All things that have flesh
the weight of appearance
a time of disappears
are related to the same bright eye.
Every flavour adds to Essence.
Talk of "one" or "two" is tasteless.
In Her glance of love
bodies imagine themselves.
Every thought is a self-portrait.
An image
can grow like a flower of light
but its light
is always coming from a root.
The Goddess shows you
lots of flowers
but don’t be satisfied with them.
You want Her dark root.
You want Her darkness
where you can push through
into Her longing.
You have to demand
that you both cum together
or not at all.
Flesh pours through Her fingers
those same fingers that pray
like flying birds through Her heart.
I am a poem being read aloud
through Her throat.
I love the feel of Her tongue
the slide and glide
of these two equations
being swallowed whole.
I wake up excited
by lips and hands.
She is over me
under me
in me like a fervent prayer.
I arch myself inwards
where the waves play.
Where tide and the moon tug
each others bodies.
I am the questing
the finding
the flirtatious near miss.
I am the fluid summit
that falls back on itself.
On mornings like this
there is no God
no religion
no theory of anything.
There is just feeling
the grasp of sensation
lifting skirts up
breathing in.
It is bright
in the darkness of Her.
I curl Her up
within my body
in-between my ribs
where the sky flows.
Her hair
falls across my memory.
I clutch Her form
it is moss
starlight
ruby kisses.
She paints water
until it speaks.
I breathe for Her
keeping Her alive
in my arms
until She becomes
my eyes.
The Goddess must pull apart;
She unthreads to be seen.
She rebuilds the unfulfilled
from spaces found
inside the moist unfoldings
of desire.
You are not a locality
you are Her apparel
Her sexual need to flower.
Eventually your form
appears as Her passion.
An apartment:
the cellar is for sex
(dark bound sex)
the dinning room
is an encounter
between flesh and hunger.
We meet in the kitchen
as strangers
commit adultery
or any other sin
that can be prepared
for the feast of life.
The bedroom
is for prayer
for the anointing
of fingertips
with erotic desires.
The attic
is Hers alone
I hear her crying sometimes,
She begs me to join Her there.
The print "Sun Goddess" may be purchased from-
www.metaphotography.com/space_02b.jpg
She is that dangerous part of vision.
A light only blindness
can look upon.
If I close my windows and doors
She becomes the pounding silence
of a caged passion.
If I open
just for a moment
She plucks my soul out
to be Her breath.
The Goddess is a She
for everyone knows
that only She can kill men
until they live only for love.
Her divinity is the rapid pulse
of immaculate lust.
Her body made to be crushed
until flame dances up
as Her desire.
We are a basic instinct
that She reveals as Her holiness
until everything
even our eyes
are consumed by Her love.
My body has no language
without Your voice inside it
where essence
swims like a mermaid
in blood.
Sometimes you are the neck
of a ravening seagull
while I am the baby turtle
racing into Your throat.
Then we change positions
I am the mouth of a wave
You a drowning bird.
There is turmoil
only on the surface
of this ocean.
Beneath the dance
there is Your voice
feeding essence
giving words
to love.
She stuns me
I am erased by her
fleeting bullets.
Orgasms bloom
the flesh dies
sleeps
awakes.
Her hands are hard
they pound
new arousals.
I feed Her chunks
of passion
newly butchered meat.
We are insatiable
the way
flowers are insatiable
for light
only Her light
is a darkly bruised radiance
out of which
my life emerges
one death at a time.
I shall not sleep tonight
until I have bathed You.
Until I have brushed Your hair
and gentled all
Your soft openings.
Then I shall bind my blood to You.
Offer milky prayers
to Your lips.
Gather You into me.
I shall not sleep
until Your swoon is my swoon
until the one heart moans.
I plant Her
A book of kisses is not Her reality.
Sometimes my living-space
is too small.
A cramped lodging
and a longing
too coiled into its shadows
to hold much light.
Sometimes I am a ball of string
bundled into a knot of self.
Knots that once
bound me to a fabrication
but now hold nothing together
even more tightly.
At times like this
the Goddess mercifully
cuts me into ribbons of love.
She throws me out
until the tracery of soul
is everywhere
streaming through Her sky
as open as laughter.
Ask the Goddess.
Ask Her with your flesh
until your cask of spirit
becomes Her voice.
You have a relationship with her,
a union
that is like a favourite colour
you keep changing your mind about.
Ask Her to change your heart
to make it Her mirror.
Keep asking the same dumb question
until She makes love to you
so completely
you become Her only question.
I am scooped out of the dark
like nectar.
I am out of the broken nest
of past and future.
Lovers make do
with each other.
Turning away from their faults
but I have grown
to be Your memory.
Nothing is between us
but the sky of this moment.
Her vision
comes to live on your breath.
Breathing-in She holds you
dazed and bound to her desire.
Breathing out
She paints images on your blood
where your heart drowns
in its own depth.
The Goddess is jealous
for you are her only love
She lives only for you-
to be you.
One day you surrender
you become human
the tears on your cheek
are now Hers.
You understand
how you have deserted Her
in so many cruel ways
but you breathe Her in now
holding her close
until Her scent
becomes your mind.
We are not two minds
the mask I keep
is Yours also.
If You came any closer
I would fall
through myself
like a burning ember.
Fingertips
and sensation
are already inside You.
An arms length
can be as long as a life
or as close
as the next breath.
Until I found myself
in Your womb
completely attached
to Your Life
I thought I had a life
but I was
using Your blood
to paint tears in the dark.
There are times when I go away
and do not return to myself
until She finds me.
Then all my doors open wide.
Bones become channels;
musical arrangements
for Her breath.
Her limbs are this sense
of my movement.
I am skin and flavor,
a seed pod between Her teeth
that She breaks open.
Often however
I drift away
into Her many dresses.
A loose thread
in the fabric of Her love.
I slug it out with You
grapple with kicking legs.
Watching myself die
as You kiss me awake.
Without Your imagination
we would not exist.
We are paintings of light
projected on cave walls
hunting for creatures
that have not been created yet.
Since wall-art
is a thing unknown to You
we fill in the details
like the colour of Your hair.
The light of Your eyes,
the small bruise between Your thighs
that drives us to build cathedrals.
Painting: "Diana" Sandra M. Stanton (c)
She is the magnetism
that binds two together.
Offering Her
your heart is not enough
you must give
what you do not have
until She creates it.
Then you die
but it is good
to die like this
as bridegroom
to the One flame
of attraction.
Oil on canvas. "Beloved" Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
We are chapels of infinity-
closets of light and dark
where earth and sky
become creatures for one another.
There are velvet movements
in the dark radiance
of this dance room.
A coiling sensuality
of loves need to be manifest.
There are panther paws here
that with a bright ecstasy
grasp the flesh of time.
What we do to each other
in this shadow-play
becomes the light
of prayer .
She woke me up to see me.
My mouth made an O of my soul.
A silent reason to be born
spoke to itself.
Thighs arched into bridges.
I became a span of my flesh.
My heart beating its blood
into poems.
I can’t get enough of Her.
I howl to be Her holiness.
A place for Her to touch lightly
to tantalize with grace.
I fumble with the
restraints of prayer.
I am urgent,
I am the sweat of Her longing.
We are shipwrecks of a sky
that only She can see.
Image: "Celtic Dream" Martine Jacobs (c)
Isis becomes your ghost
then the flesh of your thoughts.
Her images unveil
but just when you love Her
to distraction
She leaves you abstracted.
She is the only woman
you will ever love
with all of yourself.
Not one atom of you
can be withheld from Her
She is jealous of your soul
for it was always her dress.
One day you wake up
not in Her arms
but as a star
deeply set in Her eyes.
You are glad now
to shine
as nakedly as that.
Graphic Art "Isis" Evert A. Robles
www.evertrobles.com/ graphic-008.htm
Looking at paintings-
seeing She.
Looking at trees
their limbs
threaded through the
golden body of my mind-
seeing She.
Taking a long walk
through the archangel
of time related dreams.
She is with me
a valley of life
running through my fingers
as close as my skin
closer.
Looking at closed books
and open flowers.
Seeing where She appears
and hides
to be seen as poems.
As honey hued flames
flickering in dark eyes.
We are all here
seeing She
as She observes
only Herself.
We expect each other
to show up every day.
First there is the glow;
that little distance of attraction
that a song has from the singer:
A mutual throat for the flow
of Presence.
We are lovers of course.
I want to be in You
but You are expectant,
pregnant with my own soul.
I have to wait
the Mother and child
must dance together
as if they were more a betrothal
than a birth.
My heart crashes into Your love
We meet in my demise
where You expect me
to rise like the dawn-
to become the pulse
of Your throat
your eyes.
She slips in and out it seems.
At night, when rivers
turn inwards to their source
Her fluid mouth
opens within me.
I am born
like a droplet of water
in a torrent of light.
Somewhere deeper
than this worlds womb
I alter like a wave
that slips in and out
of itself to be more.
Awake or sleep
the whole length of my life
is a river
carving Her image.
Lithogragh: "Midnight" R C Goreman (c)
