a sea of stars flood them green fields,
across from a life boat they call shankar's
remembering dylan
i wish i was with you, all tangled up in blue.

He was born a raven,

unkindness, the unity of his kind.

He looks back now, an angel of the dark;

at the suffering that led, to the place with no hurt.

She picks her tune with ease,

on a violin drunk with pain

she sways, flays, and cascades down the sound,

an ode to her death.

Leaving a letter, he wished would say more,

with a feeling of sinking in the pits of his soul,

a warrior with no land or lord,

he walks into the storm, his back to the open door.

A dozen clowns sit upon a merry-go-round;
a thirteenth sets them in motion,
watches, sleeps, wakes and watches
the death of one, play games amidst the living.

darkroom

darkness

silence

beauty lonesome

unmasked pretence

sustenance

suspension

kisses that linger onto the fall of your lips

sweetnes follows

undissolved aftertaste

seducing to return for more

like a singular breath of arousal

on the hollow of your neck

like a surrender with no loss

the musings of the hands

and the monologue of the skin

croons of childishlove in adulterated adulthood

soft soliloquy of quiet lovemaking

unabashed shelter betwen heaving breasts

rises and ebbs of pleasure fulfilled

with the muse's death on the lover's bed

in the silence of the dark.

by red and rorschach