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.
