It Moves
Depucelating the shadows of an exanimate thought
A hearts pulse is felt
Against the gums
While her crystallized loam is gently tearing cheeks
That lay supine and prostrate on the banks of
A sanguine pool
Delirious with malaise-
You quaff from the turbid drizzling
Sloughing
Stream
The pensive Anabas perched above you
In an olive tree
Gnash’s its lupine jaws
Dripping mawkish liquid from its erupting gills….
You lay like a raped statue
this moment of pernicious vapidity
gains momentum
as blade wielding windmills
with intrusive proclivities
slake the petrified taste buds
of a swelling tongue
and viviparous lashings
torture your puissant felicity
your flowering Forsythia
your opulent idol-starved eyes
your solder-caked-
key-holed throat
your ameliorating whimpers
and fatuous pulchritude’s- bleed from
a taut and scored vein
and it moves…
Sensate
we roll over a
palette
staining our
debility, in streams
of auburn & amaranth
coupled in a monolithic
trice
our pleaching
affiance drops
into a blooming bed
of thistles
laughing—
as we strip a cloud
from its
fraudulent
slumber
laughter—
as we lacerate
the sycophantic
sun
laughing—
as the altostratus
weep
our implacable claptrap
intones a shattered
sonata
while the thistles dry
& detumescence
ebbs over our vapidity
1/3 of the Stars Remain
I wear the scent of your pulchritude
Upon my forehead
Like a diadem of African violets
You lay supine amongst oak leaves
Imitating the vacuous heavens
1/3 of the stars remain,
In the sky- the dying light shimmers
Evanescence on your quaking pores
Your skin is bare & pale
Under the ashen aura
Of the morning star
Your forsythia teems with lubricity & whey
As the polycephaly
Sinks below the forest floor-
The cerise ethers creek
& elucidate
The beauty in your conflagration
Posed, in forgotten fields
Of the Syritis Major
A field of clover, braces & pleads
Hoping
That in
One thousand two hundred & sixty days
It may savor the depths of your shade
Profile: Barrie MacClellan
