Whispers

Whispers

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On the night of the rains,water was oozing out fromthe sky's swollen stitches,a rash developed acrossthe meaning of the heavens.The wooden floors of my attic placestrove for a deeper tone,a hoarse callinggrew louder as I pacedtrying to see rain.I followed the gravity of the treasure huntwhere each bounce meant a slapacross a table top of tension,where the window basted winter black rainand silence paid another call.I am as much as this water flower, rain.I am as impressionable as the city that stops for rain.And I lack the same substance that dooms water to bea soft pillow feather; excepting this,I may still shatter this thing, March routine existenceby dabbling in destruction.

ISLES AND RIVULETS On your brow, the steppes of Asiaare fetched by deep set eyes.A colouring distict with mysteryperceives the Polos greeting the Great Khan,the golden isle of Ciphangu, the sultry east.I revel in the mysteryof my warm, wet flower.A pollen bee laden with honeysquirms, embraces with me,in the abrupt opening of our jar,serrated edge of the known world.The air, buoyed and elastic with pleasure, belongs to me.Tawny, pale rose, your oriental skinpeels backthe tiny veils separating our cultures.I peer in to find Confucianlilac, towers of silence,opal pheasants.Harmony strains all dogmas.Rain darts penetrate the gathering pools.The tiny plastic cupmy life,inseparable from your hand.

SEAWARD Whirl of patterned images,deep seascape paintinghovering,rustle, chokecherrygrown indark pigmentedstunted cove -animal growl of pilotless sea,metallic twinkle of sunbright, stealingbitter whiteall bird liferockward;traces skimmingthe intrusionof pebbly shore,autumnal night.

MALINGERING Malingering,increase driftof censureinfrared blotted one.No noise, justthe splashing of the seaendless, shrillbirdsgaping a wayinto the night's chill.

VOYAGE The mystique of the sea,where waves act as snares,hang boughs over wetblackness wherever windsdie driven ashore.Melancholy vastness-its pleasure thedim lights swallowedin glutton happinessthe further I searchthe sea.

CHRYSALIS Fury of chrysalis, or crepuscular caterpillar's roosting nest,Fidgeting cocoon dry in annoyance and the reptile caressOf empty sound.See it near the trestle,Above broad November leaves,Before winter's closing eye.Comatose pupa, infringingIn dormancy well primed,And charged with actionIts focus, brittle reality,Distant life unaware around even itself.Waiting, the syringe filled ecstasy isBarest of autistic treasureSatiate, 'til spilled andMolten over toughened silken hide,The outer dormitoryHustles to rejoinCompost springControlling a tidy, energy world

THE BELLS The dangling of bells...amid faint tingling,the inspirational nature of their liesbetween each peal.Classical repertoire, then dryness.Heavy swelter, the green oreiron casting of the golden bellclangs into the night.Its dash against dry stonea special brand of hideousness.Naked madness,the jangle of the noisetorn from the throat of night,tucked between the rage of sightless villagers;their torn memberstoys of plasticwedged obscene within the dash of withered bells.

THE WORLD OF DYING LOVE The long finger of blackness is holding its head for us.Dingy bue is its shade,comatose in movement, hazarding a slow swiftness,it inches toward us.Relief comes fitfully.The dragon alone, an upstartcrowned with drunken spending,has horse colours as ribbons with his eyes.It cradles a breast of trembling bone.Misercorde, Misercorde.I dreamt I saw skeletal slacknessdangling;the poverty of touch is a casket with love in rumbling sockets....