Monday, April 16, 2012

Stone Flesh

Start chipping your shape, I mingle breath,
find you that way, who would know you
if only for your Brancusi motion . . .
I in my Giacometti garb, silkstrung lean
as though my young years were again
in the boudoir of my prostitute lover
I marry . . . I meet you on the corner
and we are never the same, the bird flies,
the frail body about to break, so there you are,
diminuendo baritone purling minor sounds
through fiery voice from here into your there
or back where rawhide with lips' wet love bonds
your wrist with its many-ringed fingers conch’d
between my lips, how can I work now that
Pygmalion has his liege, and I start,
stop, musk filling shadows in the far hall
and don’t want to touch or knock on your door,
such aroma your sweet cunt flowers
with my small cock's burr a makeshift chisel
having you, and you with me in this quarry
Michelangelo missed, Lipchitz passed by,
I can’t keep track of how you make
my heart spurn blows chosen to fit
the roundelay, staccato squirm, lover’s only
apology for what he / she fails to muster
until the marrow hums with startled wings,
lifts, veers, swoops, feathery storm flakes
sleep covers over what you will not hear
this far into the museum of shattered stone
flesh there is no leaving without a little death.

(9, 16 April 2012: II)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander

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