I’ve mapped the stars through inversion
The reflection of a deadlocked pool
Superficially favoring a change of course
This love accumulating over time
Has grown exponentially more exhausting
I suffer from neither contrition nor objection
Only the unshakeable conviction
That “I” as the subject have died
So much of your heart remains uninhabited
Immaculate white rooms with no juxtaposition
We sleep with our backs facing, crepuscular eyes
Seeking truce in a bilateral quarantine
I find you in the belly of false stones
Unable to extract a single door or window
From your departure, the fireplace
Winks knowingly from across the room,
There is no heat left in her body,
Flowing grey, colors gloom,
Days to nights the hours zoom.
Sitting working writing lots.
Smelling words, sniffing jots.
Tired? Never. Restless? Yes sir.
Can’t put down the dream today I don’t think this dream will go away.
Got no reason for my belief except to say I’ve grown the seed.
What can be said about passion like this – a longing a turning an obsessive fit?
Oh not too much, except what they say – a passionate man can be so unsafe.
That living obsession and fuming too much and striving too hard and churning and such,
Can lead to madness, all scrambled thoughts. Can leave you with nothing but the knowledge you’ve lost.
But oh what to do! I cry but a tear! For it’s not my fault I’m a writer, those words brought me here!
– Thomas M. Watt
Across your eyes
Like a departing Geisha.
I have known happiness
In the alacrity
Of your fingertips lacing
Vulnerability and ecstasy
Your hair spilling
From the twilight
Like a nocturne
I press my lips
To its redolent shadows
The truth is not mine
But if you would,
Your essence favor,
I would drain
The lye from your veins
Immaculate in toxicity
You leech from my flesh
All good intention
I quest for that which
My lips can find
For overexposed dendrites
And tremulous nerves
I want to know and endow
Every inch of you