Let’s have tea, at the promenade.
Let’s have tea, at the promenade.
Flowing out of starry sky
are the golden domes of Jerusalem
lost in song and lyre
as sculpted statues and government
bend towards the new throne
of filigree and scented feet.
Behind silver doors of high chambers
lie strong young soldiers smoking opium
among the unclothed wives of old
sprayed with midnight lust
spilling pomogranette seeds upon
the polished marble floors.
The daughters of the city
dance in perfumed air of
the mountains of spice brandished
and set ablaze in the temple altars
to honour the skin of the new queen
as she ambles through
royal gardens of fig and cedar
in white robes of silk
hanging low between her breasts
and like the ninety nine before her
reaches for the forbidden fruit
to feed her once wise lover.
Solomon has a new queen.
It crept on him before morning
soon he was awake
his knees bent in agony
his fingers begin to shake.
Far from him is Delilah
reaching for her loom
far from him is Rebecca
undressing in her room.
The moon outside was sweating
but he trembled in the night
his body felt so heavy
his incarcerated senses so light.
In that drowsy slumber
many visions came along
of spices rubbed against her nape
and soon his limbs were strong.
I woke up wanting to kiss you,
river through your limbs
your ribs; the trellis for my
outstretched fingers
to creep towards morning sun
poured over your skin.
Oh kill this longing
roll up your bed
why linger like flies over
fruits we wont be fed,
instead we could drown another Pharaoh
or reach for Eve from some distant branch
and educate her about
her swollen nakedness
while you sing songs for another hero
who like Absalom will stroke
his thick black hair and march boldly
upon the ground where
I could only kneel
for your longing.
Let’s have tea, in the woods.
Young writers
With all their profound intellect
Impute loneliness to rain
Or some intense moonlight
Marching through their windows
In a bid to undress
Another Juliet.
Old poets
Know no new found wisdom
And in all their foolishness
Hammer virgin gold
Like Grecian goldsmiths
Blowing their initials
To glow brighter and brighter
In the private constellations of queens
their secret silver skies
but to keep
a drowsy empress awake.
My friends have not heard
you sleep whispering
and so weep when they read
stories about the cities we brought down,
flooded in fire of cedar
washing the amphetamine sky
in the golden smoke we orchestrated
that rose like filigree.
I wonder how many in this town
had known your smell
the fruits of orchards
for it must have been a million more
that built Babel
their stuttering souls talking in tongues
confessing how foolish it was
to kiss the heavens.
We stared all night at the sun we built
the loyal clouds tethered to glow
and the crumbling avalanche of limestone;
Imitations of Christ and Caesar
another God, another ruler
the sons of who will forever write psalms
about the day I saw you,
from across the roof,
uncover your dripping
shoulders.
Our brave men,
the brave men of our city
kissed their wives and daughters
and went to war one day
to a far off town where the walls
eclipsed the midnight constellations.
No new moon shown
the castled town was dead;
as dark as the mascara of our high priestess.
The deserted streets echoed their leather footsteps
through abandoned alleys and secret streets
all the way into the silent city square.
Where are they? cried one
Where are we, another answered
as they fell every brick
and found empty tables,
waned wax of candles past.
Then at the high hour
with every wall that fell
grew a distant rumble;
a brontide of giggling anklets
and clattering bangles
and what will they find
following the hidden hallway
but the harlot herd baltering,
drunk on some artless spirit,
their senses clouded by
the incense of their Pagan gods
and lo, one thousand men
following their swaying waists
deep into celestial realms.
Our brave men,
the brave men of our city
kissed their wives and daughters
and went to war one day
to never return.
Hail Mary, mother of saints.
They will wade yet again
into the canopy of her thighs,
offering her her saviour’s linen
in exchange for a few hours
of her nakedness.
They will stretch her across
her cot, her crucifix
her body drowsy on faith
lost at Golgotha
where she knelt bended
but with the solemnity
his body required,
and so was forgiven
along with her scarlet sisters
Delilah, Rahab
when the master breathed
the last fumes of her perfumed hair
and cried for the promise of
paradise lost.
We stood where our mothers knelt
as the prayers began
both song and verse
solemn reflections about God
and thought how sad
was this substitute for spirit and flesh
concluding then that
we loved the religion
not the faith
longed for romance
not for love
and cherished the society
never the psalm.
Amen.
Oh ahab oh ahab.
Has her body drowned your senses
as you sink deep neath the comfort of
her breast, her navel, her thigh
that you should forget who lit Mount Carmel
with fire amidst the echoes of your
eight hundred prophets and
their bawling queen.
Let’s have tea, in the hills.
In my many years
I have guarded sheep
against lions and Palestine giants,
for what but to be parable
for your sons and daughters.
My fingers plucked by the lyre
know no new psalms,
my mother pawns her golden ring,
my sons rise against their very king.
Have I scorned the righteous life
by reaching for my neighbours wife.
For all my wisdom I have no thought
my senses lost on solace sought.
For all my legend I will know no fame
this kingdom will soon forget my name.
Why do you build your statues
taller than your men
and then complain when
they crumble beneath the
false foundations you set them upon.
My fathers walked the fiery furnace
and so I know no cement silhouette
that stood like Calvary,
so high over the poverty of my reflections;
and who might that be of but you.
Hello,
There is nothing profound here. Only reckless stories about irrational women.
Iz.
