Body Language

Your skin is fable

Tales
undulating
curving beneath
my questing eyes

Stories
of troll and fairy fire

The circle
in which
I dance widdershins
a wild cavort
of reckless behaviours

Legends of Homer
an arrow shot through aligned rings
a journey travelled
looping over islands
winding through
witches hidden
caverns

I read you without cessation
devouring words
scavenging meanings
woven within context

Seeking completion
in the never ending fantasy
you are to me

Foot note to Wildflower paths

Far be it from me to put the general public in danger

This was posted as a reply to Wildflower paths on a website I post at

It should come with a warning though: Foxglove is Digitalis, a powerful heart stimulant, and can be very dangerous. Even handling the leaves can cause and elevated pulse and shortness of breath.

I am almost postive I was not promoting the concept of smearing fox glove onto your hands and wearing it like a glove.. well maybe I was, BUT NOT FOR REAL LADIES AND GENTLEMEN
that would be silly wouldnt it, because , it might kill you *rolls eyes*


I also suggest you dont cornflower your skin
or put eyesbright into your eyes
and hopefully, no one will step into our foot prints after
we have moved on, lest you get forgetmenot on your feet
and EXPLODE

*sighs*

Never too civilised

We ignore the warning signs
the flashing neon
Freon gas noxious cloud of undercurrent
sweeping us away

You
with all your choices
neatly arrayed on the buffet
beneath the china plates
behind the photo's
black whites of us
looking wind swept and interesting

Light and dark I said
and smiled although it was a cold pleasure
with no real heat to make the lips curl correctly

Light and shade you corrected
because you have not given up

will never give up

And yes
there is a howling
barely heard beneath the gentle strains
of our tune
a grating screech
bringing bloodsong
and wilderness

And my wilding
is sides of suggestion
another perspective
no one wants
and everyone turns slightly away
from

You covet although and other
interpretations

the opportunity to correct the politics
too enticing to pass up


Still hold onto us with gritted teeth

even when I bite your hand
the hand
that feeds

Distances.

What do we know of distances?


Between us rests
the fullness of time
voices of history
echoing into flesh

resonating
the past

vibrating till the shrill
wind of tomorrow
gales and blusters
scattering carefully assembled
memories

Our declarations
made
in the safety of seclusion

I can see our questing


Tibetan prayers
hanging on the elm
thin paper pleadings
spin and flutter
to be ripped asunder
sacrificed
to the simplicities
of natural order

Our skin
turns to rivers
flowing in reversal
the eddy and whirl
seeping from one to the other
till I do not know which way to go

Drawn into the current
left to flow sluggish
and discoloured

Wildflower Paths

I have returned

Carved a path through
honeysuckle days
to allay our disquiet

We will reacquaint ourselves
with peaks and valleys

Hands tucked
in foxglove snug

We stare into
then through
watching eyebright
shining incandescence
leaving shimmer trails
of sight

You crayon my skin
cornflower shades of yesterday

Listen to the sound of us
with cats ear clarity
the way we
twitch this way
and that

Forget-me-nots
will spring
from our
receding footprints

To leave
wildflower paths
for others to follow

Suggestions of metaphor *revision*

I had you once
caught in the moment
between sunrise

and when my fucked up eyes could
open
allowing the morning to
stream into grey scale spaces
graining the surface of optic nerve

Hell is a sparrow
tumbling from the branch.

Feathers
can not break the fall.

Wings will not bring saviours
hymns and harps strumming

the eternal host is not coming
to lend
a hand
to land upon.

Bones are brittle
hollowed by the men with pipes
and illustrations of
the past
winding into their eyes
drawing stories of the sun and sea
upon wrinkled cheeks.

When they finally speak
the words
become carved wooden craft
let loose upon cobalt waters
adrift
and shifting through dimensions
whispering the tales of lovers
and Gods together
how mortal and immortal
can create worlds and sky scapes
with sex
and lawless passions
scrawled upon

the cheeks of old men with pipes.

I had you once

Encased in amber
a millennium passing
in the press of a kiss.

Tomorrow is a chick
mouth agape
impatient
for succour
as we strive to reach the nest