Gestalt's Elephants

They move,
Out of the distance,

Giants,
Like memory,

The color of earth

Cut off,
And lost.

Proverbially ingrained,
Bred into
Wanderings that stir,

Deep in the psyche,
An awe of

Stone Age habits,
In the face of the machined spectacle.

Like Guilt

Out of the Otherworld,
She comes.

Mystified.

By the hot,
Muggy Morning
That clings to the naked form

& refuses to be ignored.

Baring a powerful Sadness,
Fueled by a Secret,
Certain memory

One that drips.
Collects,

Forms pools,
Full of righteous indignation
That serves only to mettle the soul
& trick it into saying,

“That’s the way it goes.”

Primary

Tempera and gold,
On antique oak.
In mysterious blue,
By means of vibrant red,
And caricature features,
That form the memories of idols,
In pagan woods, In holy caves,
Entrances to other worlds
Forgotten in these
Hollows and naives,
Which reflect from the surface
This Madonna and Child.

game break and point one

Through marrow halls I am lurking, hearing the drumming boots, the hob-nail creaking, as I am creeping into time indefinite and spending an instant in quiet adulation of the mirrors on the ceiling that mock me in my self, in my silent effort to hide the fear in my eyes, where I am alone, in the knowing, in the ways, in the after thoughts, and arousing dreams that happen when no one is paying attention, but their guilt burns you deeply, and I cannot see your face, but I know you like it, the writhing and the rocking, the bones near the surface and the bruising of the skin, in this land of men without women.

“No up front costs”

From a bed she looks up,
Wrapped in shades of white,
Thousand count sheets, Egyptian cotton, Delta cotton,
And pillows so soft that she sinks and forgets herself,
Covered with petals, tiny rose pink petals.

Her eyes adjust
A world of brightness
The lights block out the people
Just a fortification of radiance
A wall between her naked form and the camera lens.

There is a cello rising, sinking, a sound out of the light,
And a voice pierces through
Telling her to look this way, and keep her chin up,
Back arched, leg lifted, and hold it, stay, trained and focused,
On that empty space, the camera flash, and the voice beyond the radiance.

Then the voice stops,
Then the lights…one by one, go out,
And in the dimness, she sees her naked form, encircled,
Wrapped in shades of grey, buried in the pillows, obscured in the darkness,
Surrounded…by the wilted rose pink petals,

And the growing stain of scarlet.

Cadbury Eggs

Cadbury eggs are strewn about the living room
Crushed, melting
That odd, life-like center,
Creamy center,
Bleeding out,
Slowly crawling across the wood floor,
Seeping into unknown cracks.
And the light,
Is hitting it in places,
This moving, life-like mass,
And the crystals,
The white and yellow,
The sugars in the yolk,
Glint in the sunlight,
Next to shards of glass and bronze.

Paranormal State

Tallies of daffodil dreams coded by breed, wrought in caverns that make worship an every thought…action…when new voices drive home empty bottle ideals and remind your sleeping soul that there are more enemies than friends and that creativity cannot be taught and that there are no tangible reasons for the smile of strangers of the bowing nature of courtesans…these court teases that look like lawyers which Moreau pre-destined into viability when he saw that cougar on his way with no skin, covered in cinnabar and daring a soul to help…to save…to immortality encoded in memory, like Masada, the sacrifice made before that shame of the realization of the denial of a god’s grace to evoke that moment drunk on jalap where that image of Daphnis & Chloe, comes to mind…that begging question of the couples, coupling, the men in age, staged, then comes creeping in the Puni, the imps that conjure the Punic Wars, where was Dido? That imperial minded witch which the Bard forgo in his histories, that feminine that we have all forgotten, in our quests….for Atlantis.