Somewhere The Artist Still Remembers...

from the dark celluloid of my mind
fell a dream
and slept
on the sinful pages of reality


(the artist watched from a distance)


as the blue skyline
changed before my eyes


and the evening crawled in
through the broken spine
of April


I found you ,

girl of scent , sweat and romance

as answers echoed
through the distant hue

revealing a faint figure…

draped
in a robe of red miracle and prophecies


I recall as I write

when I found…


my poems
dancing on your skin
beneath the spotlight
of a thousand moons and stars


and a folklore
of mystic tales of love and romance
buried in your palms


my strange lust
nibbled on your flesh
like demons in the obscure wind


the sulfur streets
of crystal jazz and neon
sank deeper beneath your tresses


and the corrupted night
alchemized
into eyes


of your unfolded dreams
hanging from
the hypnotized sky


somewhere in his antique memory
of portraits and time



the artist still remembers
the forged music in your voice


as his tongue
moved like a razorblade


licking your wet body
veiling a fragile universe
of cocoa and heroin


and painting a landscape
of his novels on your breast

he still remembers…


your nails
undressing his wounds


as his kiss went up in flames
on your lips…


tempting the purple bitch
riding a warcraft
of hunger and sorrow
in your veins…

(P.S.: This poem is dedicated to the evening the poet spent with his ladylove for the first time. This poem is a tribute to that enigmatic evening...)