Tag Archives: flesh

Unlocked Rivers

My response to Rilke’s Duino Elegies. This is number Seven.

over dirty feathers

sand pieces and falling sun

o crystal creature

this droplet of flesh

his humbled form

talk is small

small talk

tiny talk

lording over billowed heart

huge

rising

expansive breaking

tidal pushing

midnight reaping

clouds kissing

imaginary

moon

balloon in my chest

bursting

pressing pointed thought

monsters begging

falling from silver like unlocked rivers

circling

universes rolling

stoked by hot song

slack lips

releasing angels

creating to applause and comfortable laughter

swinging monkeys

becoming water

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more art ? see http://www.artofkundalini.com

emerging

 

fissures in me

in my skin

in my density

slices of hot light

stretching

tearing

 

me

spaces

sweet with glow

i am slipping

out

through

blades of woven grass

curving

between

smiling grains

of

molten glass

my

breath is

gilded time

my flesh has split like pomegranate

and I am sailing

a slow

syrup

welcome

 

www.artofkundalini.com

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Intimate War

 

desperate fleshly

brush with fists and feet

need

this intimate lick

of chi

too close in the fight

in the ring

flames

love

loving them

to the floor

press against the energy

red in the thigh

arms that hold the thrill

of bulging tempestuous control

the moment of

release

as I succumb

and tap

tap

tap

on pine

in beautiful well-deserved pain

Nightingale Rapture

 

 

She of female colour

works a cherry path

tripping rainbow wind and flaunting a song,

the nightingale rapture…

A bountiful traveller, her bowl swimming,

a vagrant obstreperous kite.

This leonine hue, this invigorated sunrise, she is yolk.

Woman spills from her delicate fingers,

impolite yet forgiven as it falls.

She of 1000 clouds and velvet womb,

a mountain of compulsion.

SHE

a bolt                  of flesh                    silk

Tango King

 

Suave breeze

whispers

musssssk

a journeyman

a tango king…

Moving hands rest

split second

above lace,

gravity is his boy

and

flesh?

Well…..flesh is warm as dimpled dough

The Missionary

 

The skeptic, exiled early to a Willow tree.

And now silver scales are held aloft,

a lopsided trophy, sinking under dark art and muddy-bellied fear.

Trembling psalms are heavy on liver and shoulders.

He is crumpled under stone, glazed in grave confusion,

dictating, amplifying, distance between,

blood                      and                    light.

His shackles are tight, delivering pain without a (question) mark.

Projection is a bullet to receptive cells and feathers fall softly on sad feet.

The mission: vulgar uncertainty, banshee panic, whiskey driven noise.

Flesh is his generator, he see’s only dirty fingers, blind to the sky.