This week’s poem didn’t do what I wanted it to. Maybe next week. In the meantime, have a golden oldie I published before anybody was actually reading:
 
 
 
 
You are the golden symphony of things I couldn’t quite feel.
I am the broken rose unthrown, wishing itself at your feet.
You caress the wounds of the world so sweetly, they sing and forget to heal.
Numb to the touch of God since my father’s stained glass eyes in church
Rendered me impotent to silent invitations of marble martyrs
I cannot take freely the communion of blood, of stars, of earth.
You are the broken symphony, exalting the limp I conceal.

This was popular on my Facebook page, so I’m showing it here: A choir of esteemed and well-dressed gentlemen you will want to see.

Hedonism wasted sprouts wings
So I have caged mine for you.
Come boldly and find
The wine of today.
Drink when it is still red.
Morning comes warm like your body at my side
The thin crook of a sunrise like a hand on my thigh steals slowly upwards.
And when you wake
You shall seek it yet again.

I am referring, of course, to the Krispy Kreme Challenge.

Hiding in the great liar’s corona,
Your Judas lusts for you.
Desire a tear-shaped well
Forming only one touch:
His kiss, the missing trinity body
In a binary star system of deaths
Spiraling into frail collapse in his master’s lap.
But perhaps a savior less cruel
Would comfort the cool companion with hand on cheek
Would give him hints, Now be strong, Now be weak.

If you preordered the new Leonard Cohen album, it should be shipping now. I’m squeaking with joy as we speak.

My caress never met your fears.
My eager bandage wrapped you
But never looked for your wounds.
The sweat that I drove from you
Never told the whole truth.
My distrust never met your faults.
I hate a you you’ll never know.

I crawl through the phone,
Give it millipede legs to grip your face.
I sprout in distant forests,
Festering into a princess,
Composted by my courtiers.
My filigree hyphae stay symbiotic to your sarcasm
Hungrier than a dark forest after goodbye.