“Because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your Unhappiness and are”
They say blue eyes aren’t really blue. They say the color scatters like Blind atoms of the sky.
L’appel du vide. I wonder if Rimbaud caught rainbows on his tongue And swallowed them: raw, whole.
When we line up like soldiers drinking Vietnam from bottles, Do you judge me, cleric?
Eleutheromania (n.). I knew you were a wild thing But baited ghosts instead.
Raise your arms to the mirror and smirk, twirling in that golden gown. Your eyes are eau-di-nil.
Your arms wear crushed velvet, so that dress makes you look like a tragic Drunk, high Cinderella.
We all wear size sevens and learn dactyliomancy on the Streets. Run, ebberman:
Catching diamonds on the surface of a lake is like loving you. My fishing rod is red.
Will you dance with me in those masculine trousers? I am seismic: Of, like, or about dreams.
I boiled wine with honey but still smell old cheese. Wrap your hands on Grasshoppers. Lunch is late.
You say my tote is an undine. You say my lips are a riot. I want to be present.
Tachyphrasia isn’t uncommon in politicians. Yes, Ireland can wait –
I love you like the tide loves the shore. Like the wind loves the dark sky. Like lightning loves all men.
When gases shift atmospheres I press my lips to my sheets and howl, “Taffeta. Taffeta.”
Some poets major in the study of the morning twilight, some In the knife between ribs.
Some open their spines to the sky, while others get drunk in mid-West Towns, lonely till the end.
Star-gazer, let me sniff the pine trees marching to the edge of Rome; I heard it took two, then.
Star-gazer, let me fold your laundry and give the children a bath. I like wings on your head.
Even then these snails hid their shells in my teeth; I refuse to bite. Feel their hearts beat, right there.
Crack my elbows and sweep me like dust over the threshold to you, The deaf girl with the flute.
Our despair clouds my lungs with fuchsia smoke. I like it that way, though. Are peacocks color-blind?
If we lived in a world of dragons and hunchbacks, would you love me? Could a king change all this?
Do the words drip off the page and stain your hands blue the way they do Mine? You sad, pretty girl.
I’d like to cup your raccoon eyes and swallow them whole. In Russia I hear eyas cost five.
Place daffodils in my nostrils and roast me on a bed of stars. Now, I’d like to dazzle.
But what about you and your salpinx melodrama, the gleam of Love by the corner there?
Enter my pharmacy and pick out the green pills. If you are not High by twenty, you’re right.
Eating lizards to flatter me always worked. My mouth is sore from Compliments tearing out.
Saturnalian woman, I want to engrave my name with yours In the history books.
“Happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should Never marry. The world”
© – Tamie Dolny 2014
Photo by Chloe Mighton.