ㅁ Un-Rhymed Sonnet. A rotated rose is nothing more than Some reconsidered kiss, intractable; Love creeps like cats, like lawn-mowers across The green summery suburbs of my heartbeat, Who tug mercifully passive, all alone To evoke the blood of reptiles beneath The scattered rocks of over-civilized spirit To drain into the corners of my room. Lovelost. Your face as if beyond recall, Memoriam: As if black / cupric seas Did separate two serpent-blue-green isles. Lovelost. Lost love which clings to my conscience While I wait like zoo-monkeys in a cage A hop and step distant from my desire. And Rhymed Sonnet. What's lost? I may die tomorrow-matins While metamorphic metaphors fly blind Through the lonesome corridors of my mind To leap 'gainst these fearsome, scaley satins Which clothe a cowering lust. Somehow your smile Can drag old bears from under winter oaks To shed carelessly their black hair cloaks On the floor: rests a love note all the while Discarded by love-green-romantic fool; With the ruby guts of a lizard-king Spattered on my innards by silver knife, Parabolic precursor to blood-pool, Inward-facing stone, little pebble-thing. The fool must be fool; I must try at life. And prose-poem. Dream: A rose is your cliché – an expression of horizontal love that's no love at all but just like some simple multicolored leaf – pretty but irrelevant to the soul which is more like some dead leaf. A rotated rose is the essence of cut summer grass – moribund like the subjunctive, lovelost. Trees throw leaves down in angry disgust, "you're too beautiful, and look: winter comes!" I want you more than any silly rose because, somewhat as the cupric seas of mythic green, you trace magic on the retina; a residue fluttering downward from your eyes like rusting spring leaves – caught in a late winter drizzling. I guess it's more your face, traceries of sea-foam on the somber, pensive rocks, which danse irreverent of the genius of mother earth. Which, of course, evokes further souls, more, more, than silly, shy, mine. Suppose it's best you ignore this, as an angel properly should, but remember to dream at night about the saintless ocean, glycerine panic, and that muddy path along leaf-strewn, yellow-pink, cavernous cliffs – your name has become my most sacred prayer, and I don't even know you. Calm the injunction now, the heartfelt fool, under post-priori cobalt skies, romancing a ghost within his own imagined kingdom. But you're real, aren't you? Paragraph. Nevermind. Néanmoins. Maybe it's just that you're Parisian in spirit: kind-of-inconclusive. But even dark satan brightens when you blink. Your smile brings only bleeding, ecstatic lesions of joy; romantics turn away and laugh, but only at myself. So what's funnier, this poem or this man-boy? A nasty wasp of something cupid hath stung me. Unsting me or not; ice cream at the beach in July and now the leaves fly, now thinking thoughts about you – because now I've seen more in the wine-blue waves than just cold Aphrodite. And. If in some further time removed, fate could act as sea waves to wash, for one brief mote of singular time, your lips nigh mine, I would fall within that mote as someone from a bridge towards…
– a pair of sonnets and an accompanying prose-poem, written originally in November, 1984, and posted on that date but now also added to these daily poems.
My apologies, but your commentary to this poem seems very strange to me since I was not aware of your existence before, what, the fall of 1986?
In contrast, blue unicorns are still something I think of on a regular basis.
Silly me. How I sometimes forget that, in these days of modern technology, I need not rely on my memory when I wish to hear such things.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkcNqXy9yfo