A third poem for the beautiful soul who dances so often — never have I found a muse that stirs so much; I feel like a murky pond whose waters are at long last being kicked up.
unbidden the spine arches
as extolling gentleness her body spins;
precision married with impassioned passion:
a taste of fire in a teacup.
was […]
this is for my friend sven who is the awesome. and for tirstan. and for my sworn enemy. and for the others who share the dream. and for me.
the soul of art is
darkness which
crawls inside us;
some sort of meandering spider
weaving a web of mind-fuck and
uncertainty (as if
anything were certain except
our forelooming death) crying
like an infant […]
safe travels, kristov.
poised smoldering
or
fire
he enters rooms like
madness twined
i’ve watched him dance the dance
of the wage slave
blackness drawing around him
not like night—ordeath—but
rather the sexual-crevice of a
belladonna’s fruit
the aching reach towards
a greater-knowingness-cum-truth it
saturates him for
the ride to Damascus
aches our bony thighs.
you’ll
see him smile like a streaking
dust-rock through atmosphere(aflame)
into a world you thought barren
but so full […]
other.people.speak