Hand Bouquet

Imprisoned in the dark sky,
moons apart and on opposite ends
of the sun:

the illusion of my presence

contains and covers this dilated eye with your
vision, this heart with your blood, cupped
in hands of identical portions that
piece together fragmented realms of

thoughts made of
moth wings’ secret dust signals,
even when the sun hangs there
as it waits for another celestial body
to descend.

Time waited for the tree stump to start yielding
fruit of what seemed to be a shadow.
The last open space on the planet, closing
towards your fingertips,

springing towards
agonizingly non-existent realms.

To be free–to agree on one thing–that they were blood.

When the smog cleared, and when the moon’s cleansing light
fell upon the dirt, a tiny opening was greeted
with green sprouts emerging from between
the torn and gnarled bed sheets that caressed the ground.

Intrigue
found itself harmless and still
underneath the red haze, the neon
moon that undresses you and gives softness
to your desire, dissolving into delectable
consumption inside lost pieces,
places
maps won’t tell you about.

Eventually, directions present themselves felicitously
and we
are where we kiss each other.

Rainbows spewed out of his lips and
shone onto every creature and
every flora capable of
prism pollination.

such strange birds,
such infinite combinations of sounds choralling
into the night.
Even the earliest of risers
joined them
in their pagan matrimony of souls
which rose from the bodies, now running free
to build ghostly chapels.

In the torrid vacuums of love, I press
you into the heat. I cut a small path
where grain and glass meet.
Rhythms creep along and melt
into my veins-–the fractal river of mercury.

the star sends its message, coming
closer and we’re gone forever, up into
some other prank that joy plays on us.

Foreign tongue and indecipherable meanings
bought or lost
because we couldn’t embroider
this sentiment,

eclipsed by the unshakable thought:
two could ever be the window onto the lagoon.

Yet none of this leads to quiet torture in the banal
coffin of our hearts, given to
quickening dance-steps across unreconciled dimensions,
floating just outside
of each others' offbeat.

The coffin is empty and inviting, waiting for that space
to close like the moment before a kiss.
The falling emblem of death
comes to impede your body.
Washing over in smooth intervals,
the ocean has arrived in your place of dreaming.

Descending to make her skin erect
somehow sensing the lurker who whispers delicious nightmares
through the prison barriers of her retreat.
And now the flood and then the rich ambiance:

the blue clouds, the rivers
running and plunging into themselves
your eyes in the blind night
sleeplessly dreaming
the skin of her eyelids and
touching a concentrated grin, which
initiates a wondrous texture
between us.

The verb and the sensation collide,
which curtails predicted events,
makes cryptic bridges and

why is it, that the turquoise of the sea is also
the amber of the flames in the room?
The old you found some new flesh,
a kind of whelming.

A scavenger pulls his jacket down,
her dress down and it falls as she does, cast out
by her lover who now imagined her, a monster too beautiful
kept where it is not seen.

The dusty pavilions of the mind opened to your quietness
and sought only your world inside a cocoon of
multiplying waterfalls of the night
cascading from darkness more tolerable than you.

“I want to know your darkest thoughts:
slippery, stagnant, succulent, scorching.”

He desired her laughter–to discover the hidden
latch on her soul that would allow it to
trickle out of her body. Every orifice, every pore,
until she could only imagine this one golden rainbow
spreading its petal-shaped softness into a
symmetry of nectar.

The ocean of veins twisting through
his body, and the thundering blood, showering
her with ecstatic bursts of pursed
lips she’s felt the softness of,
only
in an awakened dream,

sealed with
divine saliva lavished over every body part,
inside and out and
constructing a rich mineral bridge between
consciousness and expanded hearts
containers
full of anything you need: the earth, the words,
the depth of a kiss climbing a thrush song on the edge of
this sublime city evening.

And here, something nice about
these soft warm shapes her body makes against mine
motion of thriving bodies entangled
in the elastic playground of possibilities.

Perfume in the darkness, lingering
like sweet sweat collecting in crevasses
overflow,
aching in the hammering cathedral heart.

Dark flowers drift buoyantly downstream
in the unbearable pause, the torrid glance
and the cacophony of nature crumbling under
stellar rhythms, and the slow tide approaching
this border, ready to spill into this empty body. Love,

listen to the sky; it’s a nice sound that
tells you all about the eclipse and how soft
your hair looked in that light and how everyone did
all the talking, rocking, squirming, screaming.
Hollow us out
fresh empty shells, loving
every damn moment.

The light of worlds has returned in pinkening bursts of
sexual foreverness and the anguished
turquoise curtain that
closes overneath

the sprawl of a connection of the most luxurious kind.

Hunched over its concertina in elaborate audible
swatches of melting reptilian and Ambrose
ash. Cymbal crashes usher in waves upon waves
of the cool sensation
of Atlantic twilight, which pours around our bodies like the silk
of heaven, coming.

A whale song traveling in maniac spirals from the
ocean to your face, so patient and kind,
absorbing the waves.

Just the repetitive application if known forces from your hands.

You reach the scorpion moon, the beauty of her
body nude and slithering into you.
The orgasm lasts
until curves melt away in hazy bliss
cultivated by the mere mention of a touch.

the memory remains in the breath you breathe into him
the sustaining force of a creature not unlike you, only
she wears her catastrophe on the outside of her.
His head to the floor
She touches his back.
The winged seer finds the whole sentiment unbearable and
digs his talons deeper.

Only you are there. One more time, our tissues
crystallize and we harden into this unmistakable
shape of desire.

Then
everything vanishes but leaves a soft glow,
awakening us to the nature of a mosquito’s hunger
and his gentle song vibrating into the next moment.

Drenched in quiet melody and subverted
harmony, there is peace,
there is the natural undercurrent
of our souls nestled together
in a picnic basket woven of smiling antennae

discovered anew by hovering hands quick
to hide their entire faces under blankets
and hands and
still other faces,

as the gradually exploding yellow sun drifts behind the horizon,
a darkening star lingers behind its vapour blanket,

in an attempt
to lick the fronds of this
plant we’ve built, composing its early light
like sadness, which preludes your smile,

disposed to the activities of every
pair of lovers sitting on a home-of-a-sofa, writing
to each other, the phrases that have taken
up residence:

Love is something that exists between forces of
equal and opposite strength,
and undeniable
beauty.

Once, without looking back at that incinerated valley
boiling with sexual frequencies on a private wavelength
that exists only in vapourized breaths,
volcanic hands and magma pouring from a
mouth full of antiseptic fluid, hoping to transcend
the tongue,

he blew up into a thousand pieces and became
merely a stumbling moth, whose wings remained
estranged, unseen, like the heartbeats
of the moth in the quaking darkness,
which closes the mind’s eye and
gives life to a sound and a name,

full of phrases only spoken by irises in
bloom,

the satire of bustling corpses which
of course flowers grow out of,
because the world has decided that life
smells
better than death.

Of course this was just the beginning;
a silent moan would rise from the cowering
dead. A new construction built
on incubated cracks.

Until the next
space in the wall opens up
it can be.

The sea coasts out forever and ever
until nothingness stops it in its place

And when at last the world
of humans crumbles, I’ll jump
into a lake named for you,
once the docks all fall apart and
our secrets escape

in the charcoal light, in the filth at the end
of that quiet lake, where you and I sit, reflections distorted
by the deepening well of surrender.

Secret Dust Signals

This is a special nexus of idea sharing. A place where you and I can give inspiration to one another. Where we send secret dust signals across each others minds.

When we forget that we are organic and growing, a place to look back at our torn skin.

To set out to define all beauty which haunts.

And collect all our memories, and tell of our dreams.

A place to understand that, whatever it may be, there is something.

A New Construction

Going through all our collaborative exercises (the ones I have access to), I've made a collection of those lines of yours which I found most beautiful. Here they are, recombined into their own world.

A New Construction

a watch which

needn’t run even an instant longer

petals dripping their syrups

into spaces without

ridiculous

patterns in the fathomless sky

it pours

petal-shaped softness into a

symmetry of nectar

some new flesh

a kind of whelming

dissolving into delectable

consumption inside lost pieces, places

maps won’t tell you about

then there were only thoughts

barely formed, persisting palpitations

evidencing

antiseptic fluid, hoping to transcend

the tongue

in order to abolish the undoing of words

unrecognizable animal reflection

out of his lips and

shone onto every creature and every flora capable of

prism pollination

of a lemon tree on fire

with soft explosions of seeds outgrowing the

rind

imprisoned in the

dark sky, moons apart and on opposite ends

of the sun

maps fall apart in your hands

trust the pieces to take those fragments of

you who argue

frequencies on a private wave-

length that exists only in vapourized breaths

volcanic hands and

is ever begun but is always in progress,

and it never ends either

and until the next

space in the wall opens up

it can be

a new construction built

on incubated cracks