Eclipse Me

eclipses-434338_1920Lay your celestial body

over mine, lover.

I succumb

to darkness.

I surrender

my daylight

to your moonlit ardor.

You obliterate me

with your heavenly touch;

I become void.

You envelop me

in your cool skin;

you eclipse me.

And in the penumbral shadows

of our meeting,

I glow

in the golden light

of a thousand eyes —

magical, renewed,

a sight of rare beauty,

shining too bright

to even see.

 

Treasure

belly-dance-323313_1920.jpgYou are a jewel

within the treasure chest

of my heart.

You are my topaz,

set in crushed red velvet.

You are my secret

that I have locked away.

A forbidden love,

too decadent

to reveal.

 

You charmed me

like a snake

in the dark ethereal woods

of Vrindavan.

 

I was a curvy goddess

of ruby lips,

creamy moonstone breasts,

liquid gold

between my thighs,

who got fucked

by a god

in a dream

and awoke

to an empty bed.

 

Yet my tears

become stones.

Wondrous precious stones.

 

They shine within me,

opalescent with hope.

A whisper, kyanite flecked,

a rose quartz-hued ache,

obsidian longing,

black and deep.

 

Hidden beneath my clothes,

I wear

an alabaster cameo

carved in your image.

The memory of you

pressed against my warm skin.

I can still feel

your mouth on mine,

can still hear

the faraway sound

of your approach,

your amorous

flutesong.

 

 

 

 

 

Dance of Von Teese

img_2384I was a shape

that waits

to be carved

with a sculptor’s knowing hands,

emerging from alabaster white

into sharp relief,

bright scandalous technicolor,

cherries in the snow.

 

This is who I really am.

 

My breasts adorned with crystals,

my hips overflowing

from the curvaceous narrowing of my waist

into abundant fans of feminine plushness,

punctuated by a skimpy g-string of jewels;

I am everything

that I was never supposed to be:

a woman with power.

 

Glamour was a spell,

sensuality a witches brew.

I became a fashionable bitch

who walked the catwalk of her own shadow;

femme fatale.

 

I embraced the dark goddess

who lived inside me.

By the heat of my careful alchemy,

lines blurred between fantasy and reality,

dream and life.

Transformed,

I danced across the stage of life,

big energy, woman writ large,

a high octane Sorceress

soaring like a star

through the heavens.

Hibiscus Dreams

img_7676

It was

a fever state,

hot and delirious;

being in love.

 

Love was a febrile hallucination, a trick of the mind.

Lurid colors, vivid imagery, rich emotion,

desperate beauty;

a haunting vision

that can’t be unseen.

 

Our bodies were tumid fruit

that ripened

in the sultriness

of love’s summer.

We gorged ourselves on textures and tastes;

the enchanting sweetness of lust,

the decorous tartness

of impatient longing.

The sumptuous spice

of passionate encounters.

The bitter sourness of ugly hurts,

dark moments that crystallized

into insidious weeds

and took root in the space between us;

that gave the kiss of death

to our hibiscus dreams.

 

In the cool blue light

of nighttime,

I feel inside myself

for you,

caressing the empty spaces

where your memory lies;

teasing at the edges of loss,

touching the pleasure that remains.

 

I blossom endlessly with wanting,

love’s eternal flower,

red petaled,

bright and pretty,

subtly fragrant.

I am one

who dreams of you:

the bee

that stung me.

Dark Pleasure

A dark pleasure.

You were the one

to lead me

into this shadow dream.

You beckoned me

with your penetrating stare,

your high cheekboned haughtiness,

your eyes impassive and stony,

your cheeky necklace of carved bones.

You tantalized me

with omens and portents,

with aggressive kisses,

pretty words full of poison,

seductive lures.

Until I surrendered

eagerly

to your naked depravity.

You hijacked my body

like a thug,

breaking and entering,

violently taking over,

until all I wanted

was you.

Then you were an inside job.

You were inside me

and I needed you

to stay

with me.

I sought primal wholeness

in you,

like a snake eats its tail.

Like a shaman eats

the vine of the dead,

seeking completion

at the edge of the abyss.

La petite mort.

You annihilate me,

my lover,

yet still

I soar.

In Love With Language, For Wuji

  

He was a man

who was bursting

with effusive poems,

a boundless outpouring

of ornate articulation.


He fell in love

with a poetess,

a skilled doyenne 

of his cherished art.


His garrulous lines

sparked with passion

for her careful starkness

of expression.

His pointed declarations

yearned for the soft edges

of her sinuous metaphors.

His pen,

engorged with ink,

burned

to mark

her page.


All poets 

are essentially 

in love 

with language.


Our poetry

is birthed

from the ecstatic romance

of our lovemaking

with words.