Friday, September 16, 2011


lying on the bed of cream petals and foam 
white iron swirls and the promise of security
virgin bed for virgin love light

i am given coffee from some exotic land
looks like an arabian knight in cream butter muslin
and he presents tiny tastes of sweet things
all arranged in patterns
made of yellow honey and white mallow, yes
fit for a princess
and i am she
...and surely some potion for desire, too
as i see him opiate surging in my chest
hot and heaving, barely in control 
his sleek curved back as it bends down to the harem
like a golden bending feather
from some tall and stately bird

we lie, sleepy in a still stopped -moments haze
i see things thru subdued light now
calm and creamy
slight and slowly
sweaty and smokey
from life's delight

we hear them march outside
occasionally a romanian, german or an english croak
guttural and senseless, rigid, bench
stiff and starchy crust-curdled cream
stamping over the rose that is the word
grinding it with their heel
til it's juice spills over the paving stone.
The glory that is the spoken flower.
so when i hear italian sounds
my rest is here again, oh Lord.
how i love to laugh at them,though
lying, thieving, and san remo! 
i don't care to dwell on piffle
there's perfection in their souls
they know the glorious game of life
they know how to live their uncounted years
to love their families and to celebrate.

i am not two metres from them now
in our feathered nest and in silence
if they reached right up on tippy toes
they could peck and they'd find cream

so we have layered sounds of
chic bologna, red arch Heaven
non stop orchestrated cell phones
they have their ring cycle now
students laughing, church bells throwing
strange distortion to their tones.
when we rest i know i'm cream
and i know that i'm safe at last.
wine and water? yes my love
lets drink it while i
burn the past.