Let us speak no more of love; Let us not sully the air with a fractured tide of sullen words, born from out the disappointment, the sad and grim realization that every expectation builds a cage, bar by bar. The fallen vision, pale in the world made real, the words and the deed, a dissonant separation, made flesh through every wanton need.
A golden dawn, full flush upon the sky, beckons every eye unto its glory, until spoken, out loud, foretold within this story, the caliginous invitation to some dark and ominous cloud, dampens the dream, rolls upon the scene, with every scheme designed and deigned.
So let us speak no more of love; Let us watch instead the dove, fly into the heavens, its wings free from every tawdry lilting tongue, from every spoken word that's wrung from lips full parted, the beckoning sound of each full-hearted love, buried in the boxes they are stuffed within.
Let us say, not a single word, leave it all unheard, unsaid, free from the fractures of the broken and the dead. The flighted hearts of young lovers, unspoken, unfettered in silence, eyes that speak truths that no tongue dare utter, the flutter of butterflies, free from the crushing lies of mouths unoccupied.
Let us speak no more of love, save with deeds reproving, the moving moments, unspoken, the beckoning of this hearts first token.
Dark Butterfly,
alight upon this moonlit dream
and kiss the dappled starlight,
that swims this honeyed stream.
The twinkle in each eye,
the echo of each tenderness
caught between these sighs.
Drawn towards this hearths eternal fire,
caught within your hearts edacious glare,
the testament of all that we desire,
delighting in the pleasure of you there.
These wings, marked with tenderness,
the sup of moon-flower’s beauty on your breath,
a filigree of love, in light, that's endless,
does conquer every harsh and sullen death.
Dark pools of night,
that shine in fulsome moonlight,
swim into this sea,
the fathomless depths
of all you have become to me,
to crush that ancient woe,
down beneath the salt of your loving undertow.
And full the swelling breast of love is suckled,
deep into the gullet and the maw,
to sate the vanquished heart in those most troubled,
and quench the ring of fire for-evermore.
Sweet, the blossom supped in poisoned light,
that shot across the sky of broken peace,
did fall upon the hearts of all that night,
a lesson born of wings
in loves release.
But lo...
These hues that stoked the fire,
did calm the raging waters of desire,
to swim the reach across that ancient tide,
and heal the broken hearted mordants cry.
A fettled peace, together side by side.
My heart died.
I took it out for a walk,
but I didn't have it on a lead
so it just ran up to perfect strangers
and bled all over them
they didn't seem to understand and just ran in horror, sanguinated in the rush.
I tried to explain that most folks wear theirs on the inside but it simply kept on pumping, jumping around the block, it didn't know how to stop I guess so what could I do? we just kept walking I could see it was getting bruised turning black and blue, dazed and confused, but its hard to put it back once it has leapt out your mouth.
Then one day, we were walking by the park, bleeding over the sidewalks and grass, when who should pass but another heart. I stood and stared, disbelieving and aghast, two hearts passing in the park, they seemed filled with such feeling. I guess that's what hearts do, feel, transmit and receive feelings, anyway, we let them play, and we did that day upon day, just letting them free in the park, jumping, pumping in the park, even after dark.
Then one day, we went to greet, and it was all smiles and formalities, so sweet, but no heart. I asked where it was, and they told me they had swallowed it. I tried to make him understand but he just broke upon the spot as if he had taken some terrible beating bleeding all the way home he didn't jump once, not once.
So anyway, he's dead. I guess I should care about that, but I cant seem to give a toss, perhaps it is some great loss, I mean, I can still think!... right! so who needs to feel anything? I mean, when you have a brain, who needs a heart, right? I think though, I will buy a leash for my brain, after all, I wouldn't want it ending up the same.
On a mountains peek,
i saw a girl gambol with bare feet,
and speak,
words that only birds could tell,
and in there beaks,
they carried them off,
on wings replete.
Across the mountain tops,
the airy spaces,
resounding in those infinite graces,
down into the valleys throng,
where the rivers run,
mighty and strong.
Thundering over boulders
made smooth with age,
recounting the telling
from that distant sage.
As they swam,
the fluttering air waves ran,
to beat upon
each feathered winglet,
made complete,
and joy sang the chorus,
from creations brightened bosom.
Until from out the thrill,
there came a silence,
a quiet, from the trilling rage,
the rivers slowed,
and each tree bent its leaves,
to lend them to the tale,
whilst the glory spell,
was wound around,
each distant brook and vale.
From out the mountain top
redounding soft and slow,
a beauteous sound echoed out,
mellifluous and mellow.
It was as if all nature stopped
and hearkened to its song,
as the bright little girl,
barefoot with joy,
skipped and sang along.
The sun rose from out the dawn,
caressing earth and sky,
traversing and regaling all,
delighting soul and eye.
The darkened clouds rolled far away,
as sleet before the fire,
and from the silent innocence,
a brand was stoked, 'Desire'!...
It shone upon the rocks and grass,
on every bare faced blade,
and danced a tarantella,
into the golden glade.
Then down into an azure lake,
the fiery sound was drenched,
a razors edge, the steel to air,
each soul was cut and quenched.
The wing'd heralds tore to roost,
in quiet even's glory,
beset with moonlit snows, forsooth!
to round this little story,
for as the girls sweet gambolling
had rounded out the day,
so too in life, creations song,
recycles all this way.
Breathless and silent,
in the shadow of your touch,
too deep,
the tidal swells surge beyond the shore,
swept into your breakers,
tumbling in the roar,
drawn beyond the sorrows,
past loves fading sands,
rent upon the swelling breach,
born upon new lands.
the tidal reach of loves sweet rip,
dancing in the fathoms below,
the ebb and flow of this gentle grip.
A fading world on a distant horizon;
Castaway, a Crusoe on a sea,
an albatross far from the rookery.
Clouds bursting in a confluence of waves,
born upon loves deluge,
drawn from out those caves.
The priapic bosom,
suckled to the breast,
the salty residue of all we have left.
More than words, more than words...
The silent sun in the midst of that cave,
the red raw tokens of all we have become,
the grave,
the rolling tide,
the stone shaken,
in the unity of this making,
spills new life upon a sandy reach,
with hope, this palms gracious touch, a beach,
new lands, forged in the solemnity of silence.
The formless simmering sea,
casting its echoed glory
upon the lunging surf,
a foments touch,
the balm of this gentle loving rebirth.
To dash through the embers of that fire, to see the rising flames devouring every name until all the words have been consumed, and without flinching, jump... To walk upon white hot coals, when every vestige of your burning soul, tells you it is madness. Love takes courage in its leap, it is not for the faint of heart. Timidly left upon the sidelines, having forgotten to run, when the gun went off at the start. Those that wait too late, are cooked in a cocktail of emotion, a cauldron slung upon the open hearth, the purgatory of bitter longing, caramelized, leaching into the soup of loves becoming, the burnt and acrid taste of a corpulent stew left hanging upon an open fire for too long. Love takes courage in the making, it does not wait for the perfect moment, for every moment, is perfect in love. Demanding that the branding iron be stoked, waiting for the glow, the tattooed misery of the timorous and slow. left only the fatigue of wondering, the withering soul, caught between the bliss and the hole. Love takes courage in its stand, waiting upon shifting sands, the lookout of an endless vigil, staring across the open waters for a sign, any sign, when the boat was always upon the shore, waiting for a brave heart to hoist the sail, grasp the tiller, scream upon the waves, to chart a wilderness, forge a glory, discover new lands in loves triumphant story. Iron rusts, sands slip through the open eye, as this suns creeping intolerance mocks the feeble, with every hour, burnt upon that watchtower, the remnants of loves foxglove and steeple. Love makes courage, for those who take it, forge the spirits steel, or devoured in your doubt, forsake it.
In the pale light of a burgeoning moon, swims the soul of eternity, wound around each lovers swoon, to capture sighs, and set them free. The flickering dash of painted clouds, shrouds each tremulous motion, as hearts and lips enjoin, avowed, to swim this endless ocean.
For in that summers breeze doth blow, the remnants of forever, alight upon a sweet tableaux, these spirits trussed together.
Cocooned, the dappled love filled light, transforms each whispered murmur, into a nightingale so bright, its song does sing sweet ardour.
A rhapsody of risen wings, that sweeps into this glory, two hearts on loves sweet fluttering's, resound an ancient story.
Where psyche and her sweet amour, united in devotion, regale the host with true loves law, entwined in winged emotion.
For as the Larks first notes rang true, and dipped the moon with grace, the brilliant dawn arose anew, to shine on loves new face.
How strange and beautiful the world can be,
profound beyond measure,
demanding all that we would cling to,
releasing all upon its flow,
to slip in time within this magic dance,
loves dips and swirls, caught within a trance.
Time winnows the ripened grain from the chaff,
and casts the broken husks into the wind.
Only then can the bread be made, to be broken.
Are these the things that you wanted to leave?...
are these the things that you wanted to say?
Now that the earth has swollen around your naked feet,
and the bull has taken you to ground.
I heard your name screamed across the court yard,
by the old toreador with the jumbled white hair and the mad stare, he walked amongst the crowd and bellowed:
'Serge has left us today, Serge has gone!'
They stood agape, aghast in the horror of the jape.
A hushed silence swept amongst the throng,
gathered by the stalls, bleached and broken,
beneath those shattered concrete walls.
The Bull, your Bull, your mad wild Bull,
strutting with the gore upon his horn,
the one that had torn a hole through your soul,
a wild fire burning in his eyes.
Was this what you wanted said?
Was this what you wanted left?
When we spoke, the terror in your eyes fixing me to the spot,
firming my soul with those white hot coals,
the resolve exuding through those weathered lines,
I knew, as you, those lines would never crease again.
And still you did not say it, you did not say it!
Could you not say it?
or were you supposing there would be another instant,
anchored to the dirt, the weight of your tome,
dragging your eyes to the floor,
as all must meet their own, before the mirror or the door.
I recall your final turn, labored and shallow,
the tossed comment, a biscuit to the bull,
as younger men leapt those fiery horns.
What was it your broken face could not betray
in the darkening of that moment?
To read between the lines, the folded words unspoken.
The silence between the spaces, the folds of wrinkled letters,
written upon those worn out faces, spread across your own.
I saw him charge, as if all time had stopped,
and you, frozen in mid sentence, jailed by the moment,
your pen, like the silent tongue,
trapped within those jaws of steel,
what did you feel in that final thrusting rush?
tied up and trussed in the chute of the sticking throat,
That fence could never hold such a frenzied death,
that gargantuan storm upon whose horns you were born.
I watched in slow motion the dust rise to greet you,
to welcome you home again, to open the door,
my long suffering ancient toreador.
You who tore upon the page with wisp and wit,
humbling many a wild charge, full of snot and venom,
a plenum of monstrous muscle stopped in its tracks.
In your prime... yes!, in your prime!...
garlands and music, girls wound around your pen.
whirling even then, and then...
'Serge has left us today, Serge has gone!'
Gone to where the silence rules the day,
and the moon, the dawn. Serge has left us, down, and gone.
Are these the things you wanted to leave?
Are these the things you wanted to say?
'Speak the truth in your heart to those that matter!
while you can old friend.
For the ground is hard of hearing, and speaks in stones.
The dead carry the silence with them in the heavy earth,
and they are quiet enough, for us all.'
