Saturday, 28 December 2013

Winters Cool Flame

-Winters Cool Flame-

Winters cool flame,
melts the frozen heart,
the effulgence of snapping tongues,
licking at the stars,
an endless swirl, a giddy dance,
suckled in the presence of our God.
For love is the whole of the law.

Inhale the fragrance,
the heady residue of pollinated musk,
slick between the petals of fire.
Red velvet in your hand;
The frozen land,
melting to the warmth of your touch.

The sallow hearth,
rekindled in the depths at last...
An incandescence of desire,
tossed, like all those past regrets,
upon the glowing embers of this pyre,
consumed within the licking flame,
the holy fire, the screaming of your name.

And out that darkened frigid womb,
the sacred seed, from heat exhumed,
an ancient glow, renewed, reborn,
a risen sun, a golden dawn.

For even in the darkened depths,
the frozen land of past regrets,
Love calls your name.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013

Photograph: Artist Unknown

Friday, 27 December 2013

-À La Carte-

-À La Carte-

Rest well your eyes,
greedily feeding and freed,
the disconsolate lies,
blindly needing,
desirously bleeding the seed.

No longer chained to the banquet table,
slipping between the sable seats;
The fabled goblet of unending wine,
suckled in the fire and the heat.
The tantalizing taste of each dread morsel,
quaffed in a bevy of lascivity.

This licentious concoction imbibed,
a boudoir buffet, the best of selections,
served À la carte, each heart filled projection,
crushed between the palette and the tongue,
far flung, upon the soulful pyre,
the solemn bell, wrung, with every lamb,
slaughtered upon the alter of desire.

Unhaltered greed,
the famished hole, the fleshly treat,
discarding the greens eating only the meat.
The sickly sweet cake of unending frosting,
churning, endlessly yearning for a substance
that will never come.

The flippant and fripperous wave,
the obsolete depths, an intimacy betrayed,
upon the wavelets of a passing shore.
What more could a dolphin crave?
Suckled upon the surface of things.

Too far this sea, this ocean deep,
that swells the fathoms bell far below me.
Too far, too fleeting it's call.

When all the world lay beneath your fingertips,
supped upon some foreign lips,
sucked into the void of thrusting hips,
this oceans swell became a puddle, a pool,
a shallow hell, born lightly, schooled,
in the absence of faith.

Even in the silent hour, I hear your voice,
the shower of your bright body, tossed,
every choice, lost, in the foment of desire,
every cost, has its price.

Rest well your eyes,
greedily feeding and freed,
the disconsolate lies,
blindly needing,
desirously bleeding the seed.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013