My Scarlet Remains
December 30, 2020
And through it all, seasons famished or full, my dear Scarlet, you remain.
Sprightly and apparent
always your heart cut and pushed forward.
From window view, it hung bent below your left breast
just right of your thoughts.
Like sweetened licorice its flavor speaks unspoilt,
like restorative puree with a belly warming taste;
You exist to remind me to hemorrhage openly, never to waste.
Your skin, bright as blossomed truth and soaked in the
hue of amorous wine.
You fly amongst a quartet of colors
while clearing a contemplative space for creation to take place.
Playful yet quaint,
Isolated through gossamer clouds, Scarlet sips most from the moment,
As near to the sun past flesh permits.
I watch you and want to drinking from the vein of your thoughts.
Born from dribbled embers
You pull from the blood of the earth
You drink romanced tears while cloaked in heat;
Time, you do not twaddle with as though deaths door is nigh.
In you Scarlet, there are no remains, only, everything
and nothing is left unturned to ask why.
Through Scarlet birds I am reminded of all that is life;
electric love wailing about in windy theatrics,
perpetually pouring itself into inhaling ventricles,
dying for the filling.
By: Magnolia Lafleur
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.
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
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
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:
Sergio Albiac:- Dotted bust of a young woman – On a sculpture of Josep Reynés (1850 – 1926)
Second Art work by the brilliant Sergio Albiac:
