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adeimantus Status: Member Country: South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands Type of artist: Inebriated Registered: Mar 1, 2008 |
Artworks: 1Scraps: 0 Favourites Given: 27 Favourites Received: 22 Stars Given: 2 Stars Received: 4 Comments Received: 35 Comments Given: 28 Postcount: 28 Pageviews: 110 |
lambent
Written by adeimantus
At Mar 15, 2008, 2:53:18 AM
.
Unleaf yourself beneath the Bois d'arc tree
and let my chisel-tongue inscribe your bloom
with glyphs, the cuneiform for vine and grape.
And where about us, in the dawn's curled mile,
the trees leap to their fire, the fox to luring
flesh, you'll pitch your moan to moon-starved owls
who'll bear it up between the limber boughs
while I, who holds your whorl of face and hair
in hand, will carve our love's curve smooth, and nail it
to the meadow's breast.
At Mar 15, 2008, 2:53:18 AM
.
Unleaf yourself beneath the Bois d'arc tree
and let my chisel-tongue inscribe your bloom
with glyphs, the cuneiform for vine and grape.
And where about us, in the dawn's curled mile,
the trees leap to their fire, the fox to luring
flesh, you'll pitch your moan to moon-starved owls
who'll bear it up between the limber boughs
while I, who holds your whorl of face and hair
in hand, will carve our love's curve smooth, and nail it
to the meadow's breast.
Cho-cho-cho-lita
Written by adeimantus
At Mar 8, 2008, 3:04:09 AM
.
When Cholita comes,
she'll promenade down Fayette street toward me, all ashimmer
and full o' the juke-box boogie, a diamond bijou that any man'd kill
to polish up and hide in a Buddha's bellybutton. Yessir, and I'll shimmy
up in my mohair vest with an upside-down flamingo smile,
thinkin' I love her, wound jute-loose enough to not give a shit
when she struts past them cowboy hustlers jackin' chrome chopper
muscle machines and low-riders. They'll flash a ton of hot iron
when they see her bosoms prance to their cool-as-ice, swanky horns.
But I'll love her more when she struts away
and I can watch her back-side silhouette through a white cotton
dress; tank-top tight, thighs sweatin' and swingin'
down the street to the beat of a tango-tambourine
in Harlem, her charcoal curls bouncing and tangled up behind
in lightning knots, sparking in the high voltage of her fucking flounce.
At Mar 8, 2008, 3:04:09 AM
Listening To: the monkeys trying to get out of my ass
.
When Cholita comes,
she'll promenade down Fayette street toward me, all ashimmer
and full o' the juke-box boogie, a diamond bijou that any man'd kill
to polish up and hide in a Buddha's bellybutton. Yessir, and I'll shimmy
up in my mohair vest with an upside-down flamingo smile,
thinkin' I love her, wound jute-loose enough to not give a shit
when she struts past them cowboy hustlers jackin' chrome chopper
muscle machines and low-riders. They'll flash a ton of hot iron
when they see her bosoms prance to their cool-as-ice, swanky horns.
But I'll love her more when she struts away
and I can watch her back-side silhouette through a white cotton
dress; tank-top tight, thighs sweatin' and swingin'
down the street to the beat of a tango-tambourine
in Harlem, her charcoal curls bouncing and tangled up behind
in lightning knots, sparking in the high voltage of her fucking flounce.
rest
Written by adeimantus
At Mar 1, 2008, 6:39:57 PM
I caught Salina when she fell
through the skies above Santa Domingo;
a bouquet of feathers, Torch Ginger, and quills,
loosened and discarded by the shake
of a palomino's mane.
Friend, can you see the Dobermans sliding
across the windshield's tint,
these Jim Beam and angel dust relics,
mocking me? God damn, but I need
to piss. Sante Fe and Salina's smile are twenty miles,
the chorizo heat is a shiv in my gut, and lightning
only flickers now from the ember of my thumbnail
when I measure the moon.
For two years she thundered
in my head, stretched my heart's tendons,
and fought like a jaguar against
the monkeys that swung up my spine.
I found her tasting young blossoms
and climbed down the slant ladder to my solitude
where the sundogs lay beneath the split
of a blackening sky.
If you're searching for a strange future, take
what's left in my wallet, promise you'll help
buy her ticket to Puerto Rico and raise
her Golden Retrievers beside the sea. You'll find
her on the road to Los Alamos in a jessamine house
perched like a Longspur on a slope that leads
through cacti and wild chiles, nowhere
and everywhere. Say nothing about how
you found me, at a rest stop,
with a hundred pounds of sweat
in a noose around my neck.
At Mar 1, 2008, 6:39:57 PM
I caught Salina when she fell
through the skies above Santa Domingo;
a bouquet of feathers, Torch Ginger, and quills,
loosened and discarded by the shake
of a palomino's mane.
Friend, can you see the Dobermans sliding
across the windshield's tint,
these Jim Beam and angel dust relics,
mocking me? God damn, but I need
to piss. Sante Fe and Salina's smile are twenty miles,
the chorizo heat is a shiv in my gut, and lightning
only flickers now from the ember of my thumbnail
when I measure the moon.
For two years she thundered
in my head, stretched my heart's tendons,
and fought like a jaguar against
the monkeys that swung up my spine.
I found her tasting young blossoms
and climbed down the slant ladder to my solitude
where the sundogs lay beneath the split
of a blackening sky.
If you're searching for a strange future, take
what's left in my wallet, promise you'll help
buy her ticket to Puerto Rico and raise
her Golden Retrievers beside the sea. You'll find
her on the road to Los Alamos in a jessamine house
perched like a Longspur on a slope that leads
through cacti and wild chiles, nowhere
and everywhere. Say nothing about how
you found me, at a rest stop,
with a hundred pounds of sweat
in a noose around my neck.