Oh, poetry. I guess that's what I call this.

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:40:17 -0700

The Display Case

A nervous system of response
lacquered in the apex
of a glass horizon,
her gyroscopic map slipped a magnet beneath my compass;
Its melancholy constellations,
freckling out her lithe angularities,
stranded me along her hypnotic meridian.
A fledgling flag before wind,
this preserved girl, bunkered
under her frond-parasol of cedar bangs,
hinged upon my sandtrap of matted misdirection
while my fingertips meteor-showered,
whittling chess pieces out of stubborn air.

Beyond the blooming archeology of my fingerprints,
their sunspot limbo hovering after a keyhole,
something to fit into,
her reactions still slept
zipped up in her forearms,
her mouth lost in a sealant of knuckles.
The taut cables of this, her stillness,
suspended no bridge,
and, like swallowed pills,
my gorged lids fell,
tired sentries slipping beneath
her match-blown scent.

To unbuckle my sleep,
her wispy sound reached across
her collapsing captivity’s
wounded bed of glass.
Our colliding scents, rolling
off her whispers on the superfluous
nature of railings, over the blur of my awakening,
shaped a spiral staircase.
Floating helplessly up the hot breath of her words,
I slid into her meek formaldehyde kiss,
those jagged rose quartz lips.

Breaking the levees of my mouth
her kiss flooded me out into the districts of her skin,
my tattered lip bleeding into a suburban sprawl.
A gridded mosaic,
the stony, implied depression of her eyes
rose into mine,
but I was a lit wick watching fire.

As my charity of fingers fled
through the discovery of her fissuring streets,
a buckling street lamp,
her moping head hung like a wet bloom of lilac,
and, in the leafed out ironwork of her slight hands,
I clamored to the drawstrings of her light,
damp terrain as her flimsy, whispered deceits
exhaled a liquid of impossible architectures
upon my ear.

Our panting duet quelled
as the sulfuric fallout of an unexpected sunrise
snuffed the transit shadows of our involvement.
Its crest ignited her
into a shrapnel of mirrors,
my body sifting out
into the pockets of her clustered uncertainty
as our transubstantiated emotion
hurled our myriad entanglement
from the theater of her case.

Beneath that scar-naked skyline,
her turbulent grip sifting
through the evergreen framework of my fingers—
Beneath my desperate hands,
their remembrance clashing with her rubble
for the rescue of a shape—
Beneath the flight of my eyes,
the farewell martyrdom of our era
reflecting in her heralding collapse,
she, erosion’s neo-sphinx,
slipped into an peremptory
pastel-showered ruin.

A snowy derivative
settling upon a Venetian ground,
her altared pieces shallowed into a loose puzzle
where her paralyzed likeness emerged
like a lion in the invaginated trap of its mane,
feigning mid-fall amid the sleek abyss
of a pixilated disintegration.

Kneeling down,
I ran my index through the alleys
of her cobblestone Rubik’s cube
and found her bottom lip
beyond her frame.
Only perspective’s phalanx shielded her
and the vanishing point
from the ground swell of my fist.
An epidermal crown upon my lips,
I exhaled the ironic signature of her smile
and walked away,
sad we couldn’t lie together
along these lines.

Over my shoulder and all of distance,
I see the renaissance of her rubble
climb with Sisyphean labor back
into her horizon, into her case.
Only I know this is a memorial,
the retinal ghost of my own personal Atlantis,
and, catching her chemical taste
at the back of my tongue,
I wonder if these thoughts
etch out the cluttered incarceration
of her new home.

Still, the horizon becomes more and more distant,
yet, from time to time,
and always now,
I close my eyes,
choking under the schizophrenic indentations
of her overlapping brail,
and hover out to her, slipping
desperately into the undergarment
meanings of her terrorism,
of her art.

Dsquared Sophocles

Oh, poetry. I guess that's what I call this.