THINE EYES!

October 14, 2020

Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.

Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.

Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from

the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,

moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.

And oh the things it bares witness to;

Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.

Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.

How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.

And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss;  one third of our lives.

What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?

For it is they that wrote this, not I.

Eyes of white,

Eyes of gold,

Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.

These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,

Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.

Safeguarded at all times.

But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,

They remain open,

fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;

 They do not sleep.

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Invisible Maestro

October 8, 2020

It pecked upon the twigs sloshed inside a pond of warm blooded mud just between a briars patch.

Through the rose window and beyond the rumpled Victorian curtain, my eyes were fixed;

Upon this bird, adorned in a black feather coat and emerald eyes, was calm tranquility, as it slowly tugged, no, merely kissed the twig, in hopes of resurrecting  it from the dampness of yesterday’s rain.

And nearby a tree guarded this Rusty Blackbird from rays of light and the wind, from slight of sound.

Transfixed I was in the facile movement of nature, symphonically conducted by an invisible maestro.

Finally, after minutes of bearing witness to this dance, I saw the mud birth not one, but a string of twigs bound to each other, like the pearls upon my mother’s neck.

Delighted, or seemingly so, the blackbird dragged, collected and flew away;

And as I stood, weighted in a lachrymose farewell, a preponderance of thoughts pecked at the pool of mud gathered in a frozen place inside my heart.

Only, where was my maestro and does he know my name?

So I sat and took to ink and paper my plight.

And while heavy in eyes, I wrote this, blotted in the vanity of self-pity and below the breast, where forlorn feelings often linger without a tree to shade or wind to silence;

In hopes that I too, will be like the Rusty Blackbird, drenched in pined watchfulness from a distant window, with a pile of twigs at my leisure, in perfect time, as I too, will  collect and fly away, leaving it all behind.

The Wilderness

October 8, 2020

Wild?
It is but civil.

Scattered trees whose nails are painted in rose buds and thorns
Waving inside the lofty breath of rushed and waited wind.
Quiet, its weathered lids, canopies above
your quick-flirting eyes.


And you,
You cannot woo it, even should you try.


For it is the wild that drowns unmerciful structures.
It doe not speak through electrical wires and erect thumbs;
Nor does deal in self-devouring gold.
Crowned in the mirth of a quintessential performance,
It’s self-invigorated

As the rivers do not mind you, or me.
Above we see mere clutter, but below,
Below its all one grand parade.
Organized, processions of  apple roots, warm clay and leaves, as emerald as eyes,
journeying to drink beneath sun-bathing water lilies.
This rivers skin, reflective and teary eyed, like bottled wine drunk on light,
it absorbs EVERYTHING.

And this,
THIS is my wilderness!

Mad, its barks reveals its pouting veins buried beneath wrinkled moss.
Its ceremonial quirks, and exiled sounds,
They twirl and turn and take me.
Somehow transforming corrosive syllables into brilliant, soundless, swishing waves.

Here, one has not a choice but to listen & behave.

Men of Great Stature

September 27, 2020

Paintings & poem By: MAGNOLIA LAFLEUR


Where are these men of great stature?

Whose voices disrupt built tension.
Lilac Lips soft with bones of timber that bring the heart to ascension.

Oh wonderous creature, muscled flesh and breathing hair, like blowing grass set a fire by a desperate prayer.

In the day, his logic & legs planked, firm like cedar, a focused dance with one direction,
but at night, billowing from the belly of his heart,
he folds into my arms where we lay with no part, mere perfection.

Honorable, his tounge forged with the stone from the tablet of Moses.
His eyes, ignited glass.
The color: pointed asphalt with a surrounding earth filament of tungsten wire
capturing not just face, but heart and mine own desires;

My lids, they close.
I am his,
of this he knows.

Your gentle hands, the craftmanship
Carved to hold me with one tight grip.

Rib torn for me, mine ears split for thee, summoned love born in the fashion of caterpillars floating from drunkard jars, colored wings detailed in the memories of future days of ours.

Cavernous, captivating and capsizing; You- These were the words that spilt from my veins, unraveled my nerves from start, when first your flesh paid heed to my thirsting heart.

The beginning and end of me,
a happy birth, and even happier death I do foresee.

And such a handsome face, salted or water fresh,
as I lick your lips to swallow the tears built in joy or in your fears, to refresh.
And you to me? I recall you saying, I was your tonic, your jubilee.

So are you that man of stature?
Finally come home.
Asleep no more, caught inside my dream catcher?

Tis it not your decision to make?
To have the courage to stay awake.
“Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
To love, to kiss, please more.

Undressed

January 13, 2014

 

By:Magnolia

beat

You’ve revealed me.

Broken flesh ripped from the bone, unfathomable like song seeping from a closed lip stone.

*

I felt the trail of your lips in deep slumber.

It bound then bled the breath out of me, like starving rose vines clenched around a brittle tree.

*

You occupy the space betwixt anguish and revelry

Crystalized, like a happy sea pearl, bathed recklessly; You move me.

*

Cremated in the ecstasy of risen dust, I am a composition made of sentimental leaves, the nights beating lights and dirt, fermented & churned to rust.

*
Molten your thoughts.

Like grapes swallowed in the belly of a hungry hand, pick, bite and swallow me whole ;

And if you abandon the complexities of pride

you will feel me with each mouthful.

*
Let the heft of your visible existence sink & die

And I will be the waves on your shore that rise, crash & cling to your every side.

*
Undressed & transparent, tunneled between softened ribs, is everything to you I give.

Not to Look but to See

July 31, 2013

Does the evening black blind thee from  transparent truths?

  Before I knew my wants

it ’twas you I desired.

 Strangers we are merely by flesh,

but thine heart, ’tis thine heart that I know best.

Why amongst a strobe of lights

’tis thine eyes that affect and excites.

And while thou covers thyeslf  in a sheath of  fears soaked in the anxieties of olden, crooked paths,

know that the more thine release, the less thou must combat.

Embraced ye shall bask in the merriment of an undiscovered place.

 So I say to thee in this breath, as though it were mine last, that infinitely I shall bend towards you,

for thou art my sun!

So if ye shall not rise with me,
then let there be no dawn.

First Art work by the brilliant Sergio Albiac:

Unreleased thoughts experimental

Sergio Albiac:- Dotted bust of a young woman – On a sculpture of Josep Reynés (1850 – 1926)

Second Art work by the brilliant Sergio Albiac:Generative and procedural digital image