I know well that I shouldn’t want you.

I know well that I shouldn't want you.

I know well
That
I shouldn’t want you.
I stifle
Desire and care
With all the fury
Of a corrupted saint
Entreating moments
Past and future for mercy.
And atonement.

I know that
Spirits are astir
Within me
With vague intentions.
A specter of desire
Comes to rest
On the ridge of your vein
Where your palm begins
To stroke my face.
Three phantasmic
Little urchins
Dally precariously
With the threshold
Of my awareness
Of your presence,
Threatening to obscure it
With three shades of dust
In the name
Of perpetual penitence,
Of chaste lullabys
Forcing rest.

I know well
That
You do not see me.
You have never seen me
And never will
Save through chipped glass
Thickened with
Red wine turned to gel
Encrusted with
Unanswered appeals
To tomorrow,
Using the songs of old.
But with your voice
Clarity arises
And makes the flute cry
(Like yesterday),
Perhaps at the sight
Of empty crystalline
Sparrows
All gathered along
The river bend
Where I shall want to
Accompany you,
Tomorrow.

Art: “Panopticon 2”
Guy Denning

Burgundy Nights

Burgundy Nights

Her breath eludes me – it is alien.
Trembling hands glide restlessly
Through billowing burgundy satin dreams
So soft, so ethereal they slip from the hand
Like molten ruby.

I’m here, I’m not here.
I follow her, anxiously
Into a relentless density of wooded paths, united passions,
Curiosity ramified into infinite branches of intent.
Each one rising, falling

According to a smile – laughs, anticipations materialized.
She beckons me there. Deeper—
She’s familiar with these worlds.
Already traveled, already there, waiting for the hand,
Or at least its shadow

Aimless caresses ignite discrete flames,
Illuminating labyrinthine grottos decked with playful crevices
That glide, gently, hands, interlocked
Her eyes in repose, satin cries unraveled,
Gracing my countenance with delicate unrestraint

I indulge her fury.
A small Death, all the sweeter,
Awakens latent streams flanked by the élan of
Reckless oblivion
Within her bosom I am immersed in my cause
Without qualification,
Suffocated by the rapture of fleeting remembrances of
Those foreign nights.

Art: “Spherical Romance Art Set”
Holly Anderson