when love was just a thigh bones flute

aDarkerMind



when love was just a thigh bones flute

that circled the corners of my naive

a bright coloured child with an asparagus foot;

     short hem soles in the gaps of my teeth

     a settled grief for the oysters of my tandom cycled scortch;

scotch sand beneath a waters north dead ridge;

     tillerman steers as rears the fractions of my feed

     in harpoon roots in monsoon swells of vanilla ice;

 

when cold became a member of my skin

a corn-tailed steel on a wheat-beast bed of coy

stone soiled as I grew a shallow grave;

     a barrows wheel where once my tundra rolled

     with a red savoy on my capers crystal cheer;

ghost cheese haunts from the choir of my sleep;

     a bargain bruise for the shillings of my arms

     on a sand dunes stage where blows a trumpet bell;

 

how distant now the spinning of my clay

turquoise bread for my tortoise shell that shields October skies

crawling with the apples of my eyes;

     who wants now this rainbow of my storm?

     the sacred key for the padlock to my chest?

there are no eyes left in this kingdom of second sight;

     this guildhall pool where once your unbuttoned blouse

     gave comfort to my calloused hands

     as we gazed into a seahorse heart

     and wished all things eternal;

 

when love was just a thigh bones flute;

     when once we danced to the music of our flavour;

          when never once,

               did we care to dance with the dancing chairs of doubt

               in a distance too far from our eyes;

              

              

         

 

 

 

 

 

    

    

 

    

    

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

  • Author: Melvin James (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: July 21st, 2021 12:21
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 15
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Comments +

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    'when love was just a thigh bones flute
    that circled the corners of my naive
    a bright coloured child with an asparagus foot'..
    (behold, fusion - imagery of 'meta-simile'
    where the impassioned fumes
    of a child's shaky, femur - step, towards
    that first taste:)
    ' this guildhall pool where once your unbuttoned blouse
    gave comfort to my calloused hands
    as we gazed into a seahorse heart
    and wished all things eternal;

    when love was just a thigh bones flute;'
    (a write, the great Dante
    could have happily dedicated to Beatrice, I think
    thanks for sharing)
    and I promise to tone down
    the overzealousness tone
    of my comments, dear poet...
    well, allowing
    for this - last one, today
    promise: to try
    at the very least



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