Video

nunc incognitae

The days are unknown. Listen.
We will have become in fiction.

Place your veiny hands
on my shoulders

we will be in life
in a cold winter bedroom

late western sunlight
on the wall burning red.

We are the nomads
who left houses
and abandoned love.

Places with wooden tables
drank dark wine
between pursed-lip kisses.

Expect me in your painting
the smell of turpentine
and carving your soul
out of aquamarine.

Your particulates of breath
on
the canvas

my soul-filled offspring

or
what is left for you

in
what is called earth-based
inspiration.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s