Preface To... (and) Strange Girl

Preface to Strange Girl
a series of images that i cannot repress
like a sun-stained yellow sun dress,
sweeping across blooming fields of snow,
is this where all the pretty ones go?
where the mimosa flows like crystal lakes,
and the dissatisfied lovers lick the surface
from all the flakes.

Strange Girl
a series of images that i cannot repress
(oh how i promised i wouldn’t rhyme)
Autumn
no longer can honest men live,
no longer can living men die,
i perish, i perspire, i fumble my words,
and i retire.
to think that i could branch out as far
to your heart and soul and let fall
my most eloquently browned and yellowed
and crisp and dying thoughts;
(guilty and pink in the cheeks,
a little nip of the cool breeze)
i could never,
i retire.

a series of images that i cannot repress
(crawling into the depths of what i imagine
lies behind closed blue eyes, swimming)
Winter
a season long enough to bear grief,
oddly calming and serene,
ice spreading along familiar creeks
like a rambling mad man tells stories:
lies truths and morals all interspersed
and woven in the blanket he creates
across the water.
but that moment never came, but that moment never came
but that moment never came, but that moment never came
cold.

a series of images that i cannot repress
(kissing ice sculptures with frozen tongues
frenzied and frustrating with such warm hands)
Winter
i wish i was special
unique, like each snow flake that finds its way into
the sludge (the filthy wet blemish on my shoes).
unique, like the uniform rows of trees complimenting
the grey streets with a splash of green.
even desolation has its methods
of cheering itself up.
(with my chin down and a chill in my feet)
everything goes by slower and slower,
a function perhaps of the cold,
but more likely manifestation of something missing
(other then better boots)
that i need so dreadfully.

a series of images that i cannot repress
(bodies melting into each other
in an extravagant dance, mine and yours)
Winter
the longest verse of prose is usually
the saddest:
quickly dragged away and
carelessly strewn aside,
found amiss in a garbage heap of grief,
the wind howling and screaming to
be let out; to be
disassociated from the unfriendly
cold still of February nights.
meanwhile the stars are busy in the sky
and the lights are all busy flashing,
going dim and burning out,
as fickle and failing as lovers
too many years too young
for such big words like
adore or vulnerable
or love.
and blushing as one would
after saying something dirty,
we whisper i love you
and goodbye goodnight
as quickly as possible before the
stars steal our breath;
but they are too busy being blue.

V. Winter
a series of images that i cannot repress:
(shadowplay in the corner of the room,
dreamingthinkingfeelingactuallyfuckingfeeling
your touch;

VI. Spring
can pleasure be felt strongly enough
to break free from the creative confines of
imagination and fantasy?
more pleasures are derived by deaf
ears hearing a tinny piano’s chime,
then any fluttering cluster of words
will ever muster.
receding into a morose state
seems more welcoming then
waiting for the snow to return,
so that again i may dance along the tundra,
sweep across the ice in bare feet
pale in the cold, warm in the hands
while the furious ice melts below
there will be contact, physical shadows
not in the corner of a room,
but licking the sweet mimosa off
each other’s lips, satisfied at last,
and no longer confined
to reappearing images;
finally: drowning behind beautiful blue eyes,
(frequently and prominently breaking my promise)
no longer swimming, the mimosa soaked
tongue kissed lake swells, dries, and finally:
dies.