Double-edged poetry

Fragments of love

Do I dare? said he.
Do I dare? said she.
The sun’s collar mounting firmly to her breasts,
He, with his aloofness melting,
wriggling down his spine,
now, quite handsomely structured
like blacksmith’s work.
They, embraced in fire, engulfed in flame,
an extraordinary cry of pleasure arose;

On went the hours, pounding,
arms like bracelets, white and bare.
He, gone at dusk through narrow streets,
aware of dim and darken,
dooryards of skirts that trail, bit of a fool
with his trouser’s dropped,
acquaints in their chambers,
a moment, a day, a week.

She, indignant mangled sleeping,
slopped and floated
by his leaving,
her whole body a tremendous wound
driven to be hurt;
disallowed his horn-rigged burning.
Envy or malice, took a new one,
stretched angelically for an offering;
curled more than once.

Sun gutters from the sky, he swings in
like a rusted gate;
falls into her bed
sway of bodies across the sheets.
Bountiful in her body, pushing for a birth;
gleaming ring on her finger
prompts for a marriage,
the better part
eternal rewards.
Pain drains her to the last drop,
she hardly knew;
he is swift in black air to another’s womb.

The wind whines and whines the roof shingle
of an empty house;
a miscarriage.
She weeps mourning in a loss.
With his lover he is mocking death,
a pattern,
lifeless like a grave.
Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs
tormented, wrenching;
alabaster handle, gleaming barrel,
one shot to his head;
blood, an hypnotic luster.
A second steel round. Her pale rouged flesh
pooled in scarlet.
The red rust downward and the long love creeps.

#1Fragments of love

Black magic

I, with trembling body was exhumed from
a flickering white light
into the catacombs of her
dark inhaling throat,
cracked ribbed into the malicious
left hand of her soul;
a four ringed ritual caverned in evil.

She weaves with the clasp of her hands
witchcraft, a ritualistic folk
magic invoking evil spirits
covened in black pots
clothed in iron;
first a bruise, a hammering of the skull,
my memory
falls heavily into the bric-a-brac
of darkness,
I am her demon, sorcered and

I cry like a crow, chatter like the
it is a dying fall into being possessed;
I am leashed
and exact.
My bones have been picked clean
by her fingers,
I am a dead fish, lifeless underneath
the shadowy moon;
my elbow and foot sink in the
quagmire of hell,
twisting on Satan’s rack,
I snap in two,
a unicorn runs me through, I split
and I crack.

Death breaks loud in my dominion,
save for the eye of
a flower,
its petals like a candle,
mechanical flame;
can I make a cowardly amend,
a slight sensation that breaks my trance?
Am I wise or foolish,
tardy or too soon,
will she have the advantage?

A stake, a fire, a burning,
a magic circle
for the condemned; left-hand path for
a witch.
Spontaneous combustion,
the earth’s coven for heresy.
This is how I had reckoned, the morning
is grey and smoky.
Am I a heretic for being an
for letting her possess my soul?
(In a capricious monotone voice I
once asked her, will you wed me?).

Black magic