Skin: Chaos Alarm

the questioning serpent breathes within the melody: fingers naked into the tongue of sun

kiss this page where we first looked for shelter, unknown word in the mist of the song. kiss the leaves falling from myself. today we are the tree and the garden and the song. I break the bread, nakedly, and the seeds find ground in the scriptures or flames or limbs, where again the dancers bring the beginning.

Poetry is the ground body where we confuse Becoming and Voice. 

Chaos returns into the seeds. I listen to doors and to solitudes, unfinished questioning before time begins.

Call me beyond the edge, where our lips should believe in foam. I love you, my dragon, touching Finisterra into the stream, bathing new eyes, new rays, new airs, where I love your crying out, your groping out, your spinning out. This is dawn returning to the mouth: Chaos alarm in the skin, in the book, or womb, maybe tears in the middle of the purple story, whenever the song implodes, here, from myself.    

Dolores, a.k.a. Lolita

It was written Dolores on gold around her neck. The child was called Lolita, just for the pleasure of colorful and musical vowels. Babies play with sounds and sing best with vowels. Later, at home, she shall be named Lola, and will not answer immediately, taking the time to feel the liquids of her name overflowing somewhere, unknown river of calling that spirals minutely in her idea of a closed, dense, rose. Petals of flesh, pressed, roundly, inside, in tension towards the mouth of other sun. I do not ruminate my secrets, I sing roses.

She came to believe insistently that Dolores, much sorrow, is the woman, aboriginal, ground down, and overflowing essentially. The only why is a confusion of pain and ecstasy. A woman is an uncertain wound, it opens at dawn and sings. 

If you touch per chance the possible rage of non-sense over her moonlight, you'd better plunge softly into the fresh body of any abandoned cries by seagulls. There is smoke on the sea-shore. She floats along drinking the trembling emotions of faces regaining the wide wind. We have bodies to float and merge. I love clouds when naked. Possible gestures flash on board against silence. A nude emerges and blinds my chain of fresh vowels.

Love you is not the Wave where the fire may start up again   

Begin without

no name names Thee, my Desire or Fear.

no faith says lightning fully through and over.

I abhor language, my Fusion or Hiatus.

no longer Alphabet on my chest.