Call Me Beautiful

  
Call me beautiful.

I don’t care for the truth.

What pleases an eye

derives within and through

adoration, love, fondness and

gratitude painting its source

winsome hominey hues.

Aesthetically speaking,

beauty lives outside,

objectified cultural cues,

like Adonis or Loren,

Farung, Omar or Denzell,

and, of course, Marilyn,

but whose standards sway?

No matter the cause, we

seek her, the alluring sashay

across our sensual, our pang

to be her, stare-slaught subject,

all gazed heat into the kiln

of beauty’s claim–fleeting 

hypnotic charm–elite, select.

Common, I carry no beau bearing,

not even in my own way; yes

your hunger draws me sublime–

bony feast: scent, moan and caress.

Orange and Blue

  

I colored your feet orange and blue while you called me names like “whore” and “cunt”, 

your toes brimming like the koi pond pressed in a steely concrete commercial center, juxtaposed erupted urchins of God’s flashing tongue dimmed by man’s dull blunt greed.

You promised me a cutting inscription of flesh, bled poem to my thighs, while I raised my glass to meet your eyes, full of razor smiles and pinned suggestion.

And while we slashed each other’s will, the poison mist encircled our ears, making rhymes echo, fall flat down the canals and pool in pelvic hollows of warm, viscous amethyst paramnesia.

“Get lost!” you roared. Startled, I gazed upon you, the words traversing lacrimal streams teleprompting your dread: Lose me inside and bring me home to your harbors, belly deep in the will of cabined fear and vicious distraint.

Aloud, my response came: “Let me paint the coraled sea around you orange and blue.” 

Panthea’s Promise



credit:  davidcord.com



A silence in the room drags your corpse, evaporated now,
and mixed with the sand, to my fingertips as gritty smog.
Though a tomb houses bones, the air contains your will.
I will sit, Aurelius, I will sit, wilted before that skeletal house.


When you cut your hair, upon my passing words, notes,
beards having been the shadow of fear and cloaking, you,
fully armored by chest and foot, arms akimbo, wooed me.
A simple heart, won by a penetrated, vulnerable nakedness.


No flattery taken, I am a simple fate, a lover of actions true,
yours, a silent tribute speaking legions in that one cutting.
You bared your face to me, showed me my own eyes’ gaze
mirrored in more than a thousand words piled high may bless.


I will sit, Aurelius, I will sit and wait in the earth, in my recluse,
and silk touch the grapple of his hair stubbled face-memory
blown through to my skin’s reaching, yearning whispered sigh.
I will sit, Lucius, lying by, bathed in sun-dried leaves’ caress.


Married though you be, Aurelius by your side provoking state,
a heart, at Smyrna you shaved for me, seeking limbic highs,
is never buried unceasingly beaten, trampled in dusty smoke.
I will sit, Lucius, as I do and be the pulsing-pure love’s undress.