poetryrepairs 15,01:010

RALPH MONDAY : The Clouds Were Seagray
RALPH MONDAY : Terrene
UMA ASOPA : Almost

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The Clouds Were Seagray

RALPH MONDAY The clouds were seagray like the form fitting sweater that you wore. The sun seemed to move through them some pale naples yellow specter tripping a worn out circuit breaker. Talk of constructions, an Enlightenment death, postmodern irrationality filled my head like sugar plums. Your spin sometimes has the timbre of an old Stones album wobbling on a turntable, its richness far deeper, more complex than algorithmic eighties and nineties CDs. Your chocolate hair, silky like a Tokyo kimono, cascaded tsunami moved by a single quantum potter wasp wingbeat a continent away--in the framing caught up a fragile mindshard a flickering focus that took you up like converging greenhouse signatures, and in the knowing you knew without rational knowledge, those steps that had brought you here. Save now, like this cat who sits in my lap and caresses me with his black head, I can take on his knowledge, his gripping claws that colors no Payne or Jeffersonian sense. And so a black slit skirt, a seagray sweater, aesthetic objects converse with me like images from Altamira, Les Caux. The close of centuries, and I salute thee Madam Mind. When you unclothe, in that moment fully dressed, and notice your skin as one great epidermal antennae, pulsing, glowing, a magic lantern relancing the circuit breaker, have thoughts only of taking on your power and cast what shadows you may.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:010





RALPH MONDAY
Terrene

When I enter you the world becomes primal. Your breasts become creation myths, Your loins ancient archetypal quests. Moving in your darkness, piercing to the core, the engine at heart spring's center, this is the wet nucleus, self-crucified like Odin hanging for 9 days on the Yggdrasil Tree where you now lie transfixed speaking in Runic tongues, articulating writhing body symbols, the language of the unknown, your orgasm driven by a discourse, a series of dialect babbles, anonymous idioms, other than the one stroking your hub, and you know without language the endemic shudder.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:010





UMA ASOPA
Almost

Someone asked me, if I have ever been to a beach on moonlit night. Did I listen to the sea acknowledging its retreat - waves falling silent, as their fury would leave? Did I feel them cut through my heels, as they thrashed against the rocks, or the gravel I stood on? Yes I was there, almost, but not on full moon. I never heard it whisper nor felt its salt. The sea tempted me, but I came back from every shore feet wet, without going knee deep. Every time I heard its song, incomplete

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:010







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