Glass*Soul
03-23-2007, 09:04 PM
A Kiss Beneath A Flowering Catalpa
(8-7-02)
Without substance
fragile and secretly mourning
as ephemeral as my own infant memories
existing in the proposed interaction
between is and is not
I engage in a kiss
with an altered being
Milk on his lips
Milk on his tongue
watercolor
pale to whiteness...
by my own pale magic
I form the rain of is and is not
into a rain
of catalpa blossoms
The catalpa rains
The locust hums
I touch my fingertip
to my own heart
stilling it in the instant
of the little death
in the little valley
in grave imagined communion
with all that he has become
I clutch the slippery ribbons
and bear
the weight of him
Now I take up my brush
...hush
this part isn't real...
and paint upon you
spilling sea foam to your feet
in a single release
without beginning or end
careful of the almost fatal reflections in your eyes
Turning you on the page
liquid creature
shattering those lights
out of the parting waters of your scars
shivering them down the backs of your legs
winking them out
and drowning them
one hand on you
one holding the brush
This is the secret
this much of me
is safe in you
and not obscured
This is the secret
this much of him
is safe in me
and not obscured
The weight of my being
reasserts itself
I possess no faculty delicate enough
to possess his kiss
once I have opted to be...
my brush dissolves
the kiss resolves
I release him to reality
the locust still humming
of is and is not
I gather up a few abandoned blossoms
shaped like tiny orchids
altered beings
androgynes
broken away from the seeds
so pale is my magic
I can float them
for a day at the most
in a bowl of water
(8-7-02)
Without substance
fragile and secretly mourning
as ephemeral as my own infant memories
existing in the proposed interaction
between is and is not
I engage in a kiss
with an altered being
Milk on his lips
Milk on his tongue
watercolor
pale to whiteness...
by my own pale magic
I form the rain of is and is not
into a rain
of catalpa blossoms
The catalpa rains
The locust hums
I touch my fingertip
to my own heart
stilling it in the instant
of the little death
in the little valley
in grave imagined communion
with all that he has become
I clutch the slippery ribbons
and bear
the weight of him
Now I take up my brush
...hush
this part isn't real...
and paint upon you
spilling sea foam to your feet
in a single release
without beginning or end
careful of the almost fatal reflections in your eyes
Turning you on the page
liquid creature
shattering those lights
out of the parting waters of your scars
shivering them down the backs of your legs
winking them out
and drowning them
one hand on you
one holding the brush
This is the secret
this much of me
is safe in you
and not obscured
This is the secret
this much of him
is safe in me
and not obscured
The weight of my being
reasserts itself
I possess no faculty delicate enough
to possess his kiss
once I have opted to be...
my brush dissolves
the kiss resolves
I release him to reality
the locust still humming
of is and is not
I gather up a few abandoned blossoms
shaped like tiny orchids
altered beings
androgynes
broken away from the seeds
so pale is my magic
I can float them
for a day at the most
in a bowl of water