Dance of Von Teese

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cropped-photo-174.jpgI was a shape

that waits

to be carved

with a sculptor’s knowing hands,

emerging from alabaster white

into sharp relief,

bright scandalous technicolor,

cherries in the snow.

 

This is who I really am.

 

My breasts adorned with crystals,

my hips overflowing

from the curvaceous narrowing of my waist

into abundant fans of feminine plushness,

punctuated by a skimpy g-string of jewels;

I am everything

that I was never supposed to be:

a woman with power.

 

Glamour was a spell,

sensuality a witches brew.

I became a fashionable bitch

who walked the catwalk of her own shadow;

femme fatale.

 

I embraced the dark goddess

who lived inside me.

By the heat of my careful alchemy,

lines blurred between fantasy and reality,

dream and life.

Transformed,

I danced across the stage of life,

big energy, a woman writ large,

a high octane Sorceress

soaring like a star

through the heavens.

Hibiscus Dreams

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It was

a fever state,

hot and delirious;

being in love.

 

Love was a febrile hallucination, a trick of the mind.

Lurid colors, vivid imagery, rich emotion,

desperate beauty;

a haunting vision

that can’t be unseen.

 

Our bodies were tumid fruit

that ripened

in the sultriness

of love’s summer.

We gorged ourselves on textures and tastes;

the enchanting sweetness of lust,

the decorous tartness

of impatient longing.

The sumptuous spice

of passionate encounters.

The bitter sourness of ugly hurts,

dark moments that crystallized

into insidious weeds

and took root in the space between us;

that gave the kiss of death

to our hibiscus dreams.

 

In the cool blue light

of nighttime,

I feel inside myself

for you,

caressing the empty spaces

where your memory lies;

teasing at the edges of loss,

touching the pleasure that remains.

 

I blossom endlessly with wanting,

love’s eternal flower,

red petaled,

bright and pretty,

subtly fragrant.

I am one

who dreams of you:

the bee

that stung me.

We Watched A Falling Star

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 I was so tender-hearted 

when I loved you,

years ago in a Northern hamlet

by a glacial lake.
My hopes for love 

were still intact then

noble and sacred edifices

constructed from an ancient narrative;

grand yet vulnerable 

like the Buddhist statues at Bamiyan

before they were destroyed.
We watched 

that star fall together,

one night when we sat

in thoughtful companionship by the lake edge.

Deer crept stealthily through the pines behind us

and we watched it

swirl across the sky 

like 4th of July fireworks,

then plummet.
Now my heart knows

what can happen

to majestic things.
Though I no longer hope

for you,

I still 

remember

everything.

Dark Pleasure

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A dark pleasure.

You were the one

to lead me

into this shadow dream.

You beckoned me

with your penetrating stare,

your high cheekboned haughtiness,

your eyes impassive and stony,

your cheeky necklace of carved bones.

You tantalized me

with omens and portents,

with aggressive kisses,

pretty words full of poison,

seductive lures.

Until I surrendered

eagerly

to your naked depravity.

You hijacked my body

like a thug,

breaking and entering,

violently taking over,

until all I wanted

was you.

Then you were an inside job.

You were inside me

and I needed you

to stay

with me.

I sought primal wholeness

in you,

like a snake eats its tail.

Like a shaman eats

the vine of the dead,

seeking completion

at the edge of the abyss.

La petite mort.

You annihilate me,

my lover,

yet still

I soar.

Dusky Rose

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Do you still drink

of my succulence
in the hot July heat 
of a faraway dream,
my ethereal scent of geranium
rising from your night sweat,

a fragrant, poignant memory?
You know 

my taste is sweet,

that of plumeria honey.
Flowering in the sensate garden 

of my bed,

I turn towards you,
in vivid sleep.

You are my beloved ghost,
cradled in the flourishing vines
of my arms.

You may see me

as a Venus fly trap,
cunning and expedient.

But I am not that, no.
I am a dusky rose,

carefree and forgiving.
A beautiful flower,

unwittingly planted

in the dark soil

of your mind.
Pua Nani.

In Love With Language, For Wuji

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He was a man

who was bursting

with effusive poems,

a boundless outpouring

of ornate articulation.


He fell in love

with a poetess,

a skilled doyenne 

of his cherished art.


His garrulous lines

sparked with passion

for her careful starkness

of expression.

His pointed declarations

yearned for the soft edges

of her sinuous metaphors.

His pen,

engorged with ink,

burned

to mark

her page.


All poets 

are essentially 

in love 

with language.


Our poetry

is birthed

from the ecstatic romance

of our lovemaking

with words.