deep thought

see the jar

full of star debris

foresee the timid scars

chair on fire

the pair of tears

on the mohair rug do fall

drug i’m in love

my soul and heart

for you to tug

shoes walking bruise

the tattoo lamp

to clamp the jaw

a railway tramp he sings the blues

books with art of golden seas

hooks on hung the snooper looks

to dart across the windows

lest i depart with question mark

to the black door cave

across a lucid water

dreams are slaughter

silver daughters soar into the sky

to pour the naked words

atop of frozen embers

esta noche

rosewood arm wrapped tight

moon slice robin egg blue black freckles

beyond the shadow of the spider’s web silvery dew hangs

the heart stopped years ago so quiet it is the invisible steps of the spiders weaving up their net amplified in the violet breeze

my glance molded inside the grip of the cup bitter and heavy

life weeps through the slits of my old old eyes

breath too weak to move spider threads evaporate into a darkness

mbrazfield (c) 2020

vos lèvres

thin and cold

red where i bit them

the whisker burn on my chin

your grip around the small of my back

tightens like a snake while wet drunken bitter blood tinged lips suckle the wilderness from mine

dans mon trésor

pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

intervals in session

pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

the reason:

the lighthouse built in 1874 and lit the same year stood like a resplendent bride against the blue and lavender aging father sky giving her away the edge was just there one four inch move and then

the back story:

i would gulp my chocolate milk shake with my little fat legs dangling from the counter stools peering down at the green and white checker board linoleum floor

an hour before the reason:

with the wind blowing in my ear i catch a few notes of  “House of the Rising Sun” emanating from somewhere in the bowels of the tightly knit drunken biker crowd

trigger A:

child-hood memories float slowly into my head as i breathe deeply the Pall Mall smoke wafts by intermingled with the sea weedy odor from below the cliff

the back story’s back:

my mind wandered again into my mother’s ghost i loved studying her design patterns thousands of silk spools and the sequins and crystals God’s firmament in my mother’s house

smiling at Dr. Pang:

i loved to listen to my mother talk in that sophisticated German accent for most of my life she was as far away from me as the horizon i was looking at now

good Samaritan getting complicated:

a scratchy voice tore at the rice paper breeze midway he turned back to look at me and blew me a kiss as he melted into the small crowd

flat lips move at Dr. Pang:

my mother whipped me with yellow nylon rope every time she struck me on the legs thighs or torso the rope would welt up my skin and leave a red hot sting i could move but i didn’t

trigger B:

later that rainy night i awoke in the lobby from a very young age i discovered that an aching soul however would need a stronger analgesic

eclipsed mental decomposure:

i squeezed the memory out of my mind and as i removed my fingers from my eyelids a most beautiful black canopy covered the sky as diamond stars throbbed simultaneously i focused and marveled at such beauty it still causes such wonder in me to remember the night that the moon ate the dark

Dr. Pang concerned at the options:

for years i only spoke if spoken to and i kept my answers to only seven words or less i counted them i laugh about it now i was like Coppola’s Kilgore surfing through my own metaphoric napalm bombs

breakthrough perhaps:

she cut me up and sewed me back together again in her way the welts on my body were the fibers of strength that have helped me endure physical pain her harsh words were the sleeves and pant legs covering me protecting me from infinite poisonous tongues her rejection and unfair judgments were the thread holding me together when life’s sharp scissors cut into me

roman candle

snow fire light thunder the hummingbird speaks

the peacocks have been here for all time just their beauty royal blue tears

heart desires stretching reaching for infinite nothing it seems

i stare the moon frowns at me a spotlight on my shame most gracious lady my eyes downturn

pain and mystery are beautiful holy at times demonic only at someone else’s pleasure

if He wept at His abandonment who then am i to complain

agonizing rainbow look me in the eyes roses die in mid December

that all of treasure’s soul lays bare the blood not on the spear this time but splattered all to see

that a twisted existence didn’t always weave and the past a few exceptions made

that leads me to this Maypole game where spirit and soul are sewn into the coat of many colors

to light the sky in flames of glory and my spark to soar on angels’ arms

for Hunter S

seed of pulp

melodies melt through the creamy walls

the night hot

the asphalt angry almost boiling

the sizzle of her heel

i can hear it

she comes near

the steps bend soft like wax

up she floats

i can almost see her

dressed in spicy orange

moist with musks

muffled stomps rushed then slowed

he stops

i can’t hear the locks

but i know he’s turning them

like a perky breast

almost rolling the knob

on the tips of his fingers

that smell like Cuban cigar

Hollywood is burning tonight

we sweat wilt run into our mattress

it doesn’t matter

the chords are taught

the hydras groan at him

from her fake jeweled throat

he has to convince a beautiful beast

that if she stays for a few hours

he can be more of a man

than he is now

bottles cheap dusty and old

like his hands

her purse sags from cheap makeup

and the volume of her in between tears

Hollywood has burned before and yet it rises

nothing novel in any of our eyes

now a cricket here

a dog bark farther

a few clicks on my type writer

the sun is coming up

i too swig from my dusty vials

carnations are pink

in my kitchen calico lady cat yawns at the sunny rays piercing the window

she don’t like tuna a real nut job of a cat

my coffee’s ready four cubes and half and half we engage eyes the cat and i

she stretches ten feet long including freshly sharpened claws on the leg of the velvet black couch

i concede she’s the queen i drink coffee smokey creamy good i think of a certain lover of long ago

the cat she knows my thoughts i blush a little her pupils broaden at my joyful shame

my memories entwined with coffee steam like my lover’s clumsy breath descending on my bright pink mound

to miss not the sensation but the act of being held for a few moments by a pair of hungry arms

sensing the melancholy seeping in the cat meows at me asking that we share a glance out the window

my carnations had bloomed again after a long blue winter

threesome

moon peeks slowly orange glow beautiful at two in the morning

we inebriated on thoughts on old angers and accusations

moon she shows cleavage through silks and laces tailored for her by the Venus

we savage with our voice one fist raised above the other torn lapels teary eyes your cut knuckles my need to run

moon swells enormous pregnant by the Mars no weeping in her labor she knows how to raise the stars

we impassioned and raged swell in our erotic locations kissing negotiations the climax nears the horizon

moon wanes with satisfied relief and the pinkest carnal flush

rouge

hot rhythm

pulses my middle

heat kisses my begging thighs

lava tongue spinning salacious

rivers of lust along my woman valley and into the navel of my heart