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as I glide out of a fitful night's dream
i sometimes surf on the waves of her past
transporting myself to the southern limits of the Equator
where two oceans meet and where at dusk
the sun flaunts its pharaonic majesty
touching the horizon with the flamboyance
of a gigantic yolk
she shields her bosom with crossed hands
while unconsciously licking her lips
it is the atavistic gesture
of pleasure tasting before a cataclysm
or the expectancy of it
for aren't we always rehearsing our demise
whenever confronted with nature's mysteries
isn't life, after all, a concatenation of partial deaths?
now, instead, the sun has turned purple
suffused with nocturnal ink
it is the color of poison and
the moon crescent in its icy petulance
bids it farewell like a victor
snickering at a downtrodden enemy
she replays this scene whenever we part
for in her eyes i see dancing lizards
then as she moves away
the latter nibble each other's tails
and revolve in a fiery merry-go-round
i can't stare too long at ther pupils
lest mine too begin to flash, spewing
like those medieval witches
venomous toads and live scorpions
now and then, ghostly glint of a gem
she emanates that faraway
impregnable scent
so preciously tropical
it evaporates like a drop of Guerlain perfume
spilt over a furnace
and i never know whether it is me she has just consumed
or her life which i have borrowed

email the author
Visit the author's website
Read about his book Painting The Tower of Babel

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This page last updated: 13th November 2006.