Empty rooms, like blank canvases, are full of possibilities, as many possibilities as the featureless horizon of a desert. From these we can create any landscape we choose.
| rest | ||
| scapulae | ||
| empty room | ||
| desert | ||
| dawn |
rest
"tonight," you said,
"will be a night of rest,
no pretzel-tangled arms and legs,
no hard athletic marathon,
for now i've had my fill
in ways so many more than one,
i really am quite thrusted out."
"with that i can comply," said i,
my fingers idly twirling in your nest,
"a tranquil night, i think, is for the best."
but while i dipped in lazy play,
your hand traversed the gap between our bodies
soft reclining side by side,
uncurled the little worm asleep
so that he stretched in curiosity
and peeked above your fingers' grip.
and though i tried to read my book,
the words kept slipping off the page,
until your hand appeared
to flick the book away
which you replaced with thighs so welcome wide,
the flaring conch before my eyes.
"i wonder if i'll taste the same today?" you said,
an invitation not to be denied.
"this vintage can but mellow
with the passage of a day," i said,
and then confirmed this with
a long and detailed kiss,
a delve into the wet divide.
you later wiped away the nectar from my cheeks
and found your voice enough to speak,
"i wonder if you'll find my breasts
as sweet intriguing in their sway
as did you yesterday?"
"no bells of notre dame
did ever chime so fine," i said,
as clambered you on top of me,
their gentle bounce engaging me hypnotically.
"and will you find your way
into the clasping heat of me
as fluid as you did the night before?" you asked.
but ere these words had left your lips
i'd found my way within . . .
thus joined at hip we rode into the night,
the promise of passivity now well and true forgot.
"our peaceful eve was not to be," i said,
exhausted, lying back upon the bed,
"but then again, they say
"it's on the seventh day we rest . . .
um, isn't it?"
"yes, but who is counting, huh?"
the spot upon your back
that sits between your shoulder blades
is where i place my head
so that my ear becomes a stethoscope
that listens to the clatter of your heart
in syncopation with my own
and here i let my eyes drift shut
to close upon the blurry world outside,
to dwell upon the moving fractals under lids
that tell me of the pulse of blood,
to dull the sharp capricious whims of life
and slip into the peace of being here with you.
even so, a tear escapes.
an empty room is like a canvas white,
awaiting touch of artist's coloured brush,
whose strokes are first the gentle pastel wash
that fills the air with rustles, sighs, whispers soft,
of cloth on cloth as bodies tightly press,
and followed by the rapid sketch of kiss
of darting lips and eager questing hands,
and darker hues of urgent breathing deep,
with shades in purples, blues of sudden moans,
the thrust of pallette knife in fleshy tones
before the creamy paste of oily slash,
the squelch and slide of thick impasto flash
with rhythmic overtones in colours bright,
now swirling, coiling, churning in the light,
in air alive with thunder of the blood,
the violent crash, the sharp electric flood,
a silver signature thus jointly penned,
the canvas filled, but soon to start again.
the azghun are the noises you can hear,
sad sobs and soughings on the gobi in the night,
the cries of static electricity
where pallid sands sit unmoving under indigo,
the sighs accompanied by fleeting partners rare,
the beads of heaven, winking blue,
they dance like fireflies in the cold,
atop the parch-dry desert sands
whose brushing crystals kiss and spark.
and like greek sirens do they beckon
'help us, help us, set us free'
to lure the nomads
off their narrow corridor of passage safe
and to their deaths upon the cold and untracked plain.
within my tent i can stay warm
for here inside i have a lamp
that flickers shadows on the canvas,
orange in its glow
and constant in its steadfast loyalty.
i closed the flap against the dark
and watched your tranquil sleep,
and placed a kiss upon each eyelid shut,
and sought your sleep-soft hand,
and placed it on my breast.
the wide horizon wavered
at the edge of the world,
where this desert plain flattened to meet the sky,
and where the sun scaled its morning ladder
rungs of fading stars towards the dawn.
our tent upon this plain
creaked and groaned with morning warmth,
one side of this lonely cube glowing orange
with sun's welcoming fingers.
inside, the light welcomed you,
where you stirred,
reached a hand across.
"you are awake," i said.
"i had strange dreams," you said,
"of desert creatures, griffon and basilisk,
unicorn and manticore.
what do they mean?"
on the sand at my feet
abstractedly i drew a horse,
not being good with mythical things.
"creatures from the dark, they are,
bearing the germs of ideas
and the seeds of direction."
you raised yourself on your elbows,
and looked at me.
"yes, they gave me ideas,
and you can see their direction."
your legs kicked off the blanket,
and i saw the garden
with its flaring pink-petalled flower.
before the sun rose too far
i had formed an umbrella over you
and in this canvas bower
we rode the thunderclouds
and when the storm had finished,
there was fresh dew on the leaves.
last updated by mikko; 06 November, 2001