Augury of Red Plasma

abstract_final_by_himstress666

*Image found HERE

Augury of Red Plasma

A clown on a leash,
I lick the boiling bedlam,
The egg cracked
On the edge of a frying pan,
A Sun that comes.
Inside, like a mandarin,
I am split water, somebody’s daughter
Tasting like cordial darkness.
Should I fear?
Of having you, described
With a palindrome that does not sting,
Self taught in embroidery, stitches,
Frail for sparrows, frail for horizons,
Frail for all the frailest things.

Love, I love, and wear 1 A.M. black,
Love, the love is you,
Antique eyes collected in tablespoons,
Maracuya, skinless undines,
Cavalcades of flamingos; pulp.
You, in the darkroom, pregnant with an archive of bodies,
What will you break of me,
When the world slides down on the toothpick,
Touches the tomato, pepper, goat cheese,
Is gone in a gulp.

You, love, skeleton,
Still ache of still old pain;
You, in the train, full of bones of twilight,
Empty the mill into the sky,
Whisper into the solace of the room.
Is the string tired? Is the lie petty?
The king well fed?
I, am merlot, dripping down on will o’ wisp,
A hyacinth clawing through the third stomach of a worm;
A consequence of sleep.
You, in the bed,
Silk and cashmere, blood and guts,
A draft of sycophants.
What do you make of me?
Spring-cleaned cricket house, a broken violin,
The garden of tone deaf drunks
Thawing in a box of cut off trunks
Of hawthorns.
(Lust.).
A decorated ruin in the plains of Shangri-La,
Hypothermia in the apple,
Love, like a surgeon, his head in a suitcase,
A protagonist who says goodnight to the moon,
Denies, shuts the doors, turns of lights,
And cuts through softest of you
Into softest more the drabble.

Love, for you, whatever is you,
You, in the library, red and mandragora,
You, picker of sugarplums, love,
Extractor of blues, the bigger dosage
For the spoiled bleed,
The diver through the jealous ocean,
Love me, dear,
I’m somebody’s wayward gun,
The unpaid postage,
Invocations, godless and undone.
Don’t love me,
I love you, love,
A pound in a chest,
A pound in the dirty floor of the fountain,
A pound and a rap and a tap
In the grape the chaperon chews,
You, love, in
The warmed up leftovers,
In regret and forgive,
In what it means to live, today, yesterday and now,
Ungrateful, like a swine,
You, with your heart of rust and chrome;

You at a desk of recycled meteors,
You, home.

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~ by Oloriel on July 5, 2016.

16 Responses to “Augury of Red Plasma”

  1. This is amazing

  2. so much passion…

  3. This is just magnificent… the grittiness and pain as well as the softness… the greatest love of all, our home, with scent of bacon-fat and hyacinths.. with mold and bloom, it’s still the perfect place.

  4. 💖

  5. I really enjoyed reading this poem. You have such a passionate voice, Oloriel!

  6. I have a feeling that I am reading about sex, period, first times and times after, being at the receiving end…
    I could understand, however not relate…
    At least that is the image I got

    • I say good, because it is nothing about that. Seeing I am obvious with my comments, I try to be less so in poems. So no, its not a sex poem. It is, something like, completely the opposite! But, saying this and re-reading your description, it is kinda like sex/ Cause sex is deception, and a few mere words that are totally unconnected I can make you think whatever I want (or don’t)

      • That is what I like about poetry, the free interpretation, you may wanted to persuade one thing, however I am seeing a different image at this point and time of my life and then returning to it after a time I can see a different image with new experience

      • Yeah, that is ultra special. like, sometimes, will read my own poem 10 years later and be totally perplexed by it and not believe I wrote it.

      • Well yea, that is the point!

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