Karunā

Posted on: Friday, September 7th, 2018

I annihilate men with my godsent tongue, this godsent mouth.
My lip gloss are diamonds like I’m the diabolical that rose a rose.
My hips, my arms– they are godless but they climbed down from heavens light as rain,
As the snow McKinley has never known, never had a problem for, never worn…

“I wish he had a blog, so I can read his mind, so I can judge his thoughts accordingly,
The things he won’t dare speak direct to me, but shouts at me, directly…”
It only takes one re-reading of Shakespeare to learn of love again.
I learn of tragedy again.

My dear tragedienne, would you come back and bike with me?
We can cross so many towns together, even
The Atlantic. I’m ecstatic, electric, reformative in my deepest,
Cleanest panic.

We can set up a picnic, singing
Happy songs,
Moody songs,
Grunge, RnB, post-hard core, melodic death metal.
You deserve a medal just for
Walking like you invented light.
You are mental. I deserve all of your medals.

The bad bitches, mad witches of the world, really do move it around.
My love, during rampant breaks in the air, is remedied only by his sitting-next-to-mes.
I may not deserve this even if I die a national martyr in my next
Forty seven lives. I am sure that

My love is inconvenient, but still,
My darling, the tempest that he is, chooses me,
Chooses to stay every time,
And so ‘every time’ became a lie.

I keep waiting for the roof to fall over my head, bringing me back
To reality– an empty room, an empty swing, an empty set,
And still he says, “This is not a dream, my daddy. I will fight all your dreams, all that were mine, and not mine,
Fight the endless hours to be by your side.”

I hear the whispers of yesteryears, asking the more-informed,
“How many people are making love right now?
Good love. Rabid love. Mechanical love.
Love that travels miles, excites the self and pukes in shelves in buses because no one else in the city
Carries that sort of love that is already owned,
And time has been already owed by him who’s spent the last few weeks away,
Working away and wasting away.”

I am so cruel to myself,
Am so cruel to myself some times.
And there are silent flashes under the eyeglasses
Of the leather man who’s desperate for the touch and grope of another leather man,

And tears of the man who bleeds only for the absent man,
Before the song ends… Before the song ends, and a new feeling comes awash,
And in sobriety alone again,
Ready to work and waste again…

I have been proven to be a little too much territorial,
Sharing had become a challenge, a divide,
A long lost concept run over in the wild,
Pouring like a vine.

A stadium packed of opposing dreamers
Holds the weight of their anti-ignorance by its non-anoxic hands, the oeuvre
Like bondaged bottoms like breech births and ewes
Milky and sweating like calamondin,
Furtive and suffering cursive and triumphantly
Erases and pulses at our impulses and I’m just an imp that’s impractical and impassively possessive,
Pretty much just a warhorse and a warlord. Warlord, come back home…

Cupping their fretwork at prayer luncheons and
Dressing-down boys from Bologna as they visit
The stellar entresols of cacao and zucchini meshed like a riot t’be served
By the hottest Cabana boys the view could offer in the high tides of June–

O’, the inundate picantes of the lagoon–
Well, there is no high quite the same as forgetting your big ex’s full name,
The full-fat sure, the closed-off checks, the shoddy cravats and corsages to be torn soon–
It is dogma. Must be dogma, then.

You dismantle all the philosopher’s works so easily–
You and your pilosopo modo cum, carnal modus operandi.
Get bothered with the world. Just don’t bother critiquing lesser poets.
Just write with your black blood. Just write good poetry,

And swim, swim
In Boysen paint and gasoline,
And reach the shores dedicated to my only muse. Amuse
All these goddamn angels, agents of morphine and Mona Lisa stings
Blurting, blurting
The sacred places of the lavender universe like a carpenter’s moon.
I shower the shower of obscurity.

Astringent and astrayed, a cornucopia of scents and hope diminishing,
They donate and dictate– they are the most enunciated things of my universe,
And my universe is minute– it is beautiful in what it is
And what isn’t is a real concern of only those who are capable to feel.

I’ve gotten empathy-ill from the burdens I gave me.
Exes can be sloppy burdens or the bestest of friends.
On the top of the brownish mountain, I am Atlas alone now,
Unwillingly cultured in the palms of your know-hows.

Yea, well, the pressure’s important and the closure’s ecstatic,
And the threshold’s another stopovers for the day
Of filigrees and filibusters de-escalating.
(There ain’t no other Gemini but Niquesha.)

The kingdom of remorse welcomes just the people like me
And my groupies on a sexual train snaking
Inside the vape storms making the atmosphere smell like doxycycline
Where I am Duke here, Earl here–
Am about to puke here, tiger, angel, lamb and rod of the river gods,
Rue here…
I turn on my four-hour downloads of thirty minute content

To laugh my licorice laugh
And come down from the contemplative cum by tongues.
I’m content being an emotional tourist
For now… For now…

They tarry in motley,
They dispel, they surrender
Half the sum of all the Jupiter’s warmth and illness.
Spoil yourself with ass got avant-garde…

The rainfall caves for company, destroys it without meaning to,
For it knows only to kiss in floods and the occasional
Tear of the blue tit that most dandelions sing about,
Sings about me…

The pavilion today, packed with people praying and predators collecting tithes.
All the poets of sucky, sulky natures, all the blinds trying to make something in their blindness, and never shutting up.
Adults with teenage tastes, teens with adult hates,
A group of consumerists clapping each other in the back,
And waiting for their turn to waive in praise reprised,
Waiting for the keep…
I’m in my rush to sleep. Golden, golden

Sluts for slapstick, jackals and dire wolves so easily entertained,
Sire and desire only the backwards automobile,
Collects the cans of sightless street rangers without making a sound…

Poof! The coins rattle into nothing,
But clink, clink, clink! The hourglass incarnate died,
Instead of the sand left, we are red by patella.

I felt the breath of seven Aphrodites seeping from the kiss we shared.
Whether a lie or not, I carry it from home to home, paying a yearly visit just to taste much of the cosmos again.
I am the heir of its universe.

My sojourn with Soju and the other juices for my veins, blue, that are your tears and your love, lurking,
Confusing as the slopes of Mayon, my genesis, my exodus, my elite sugar baron,
They are the untenable, veritable as orphaned oregano, browsing un blooming

The delectable alimony, un inimitable perch
Of pittance and nutmegs and pound cakes that relish the form
From the siphoners of matters of goodwill dossiers.

Don’t be fooled by the wallpaper and the dripping sound the leaky faucet makes.
Bigger dreams where conceived in his apartment that anything born from the city’s most expensive 2BRs.
And I know who we are. This is the biggest of our dreams…

High speed packets of fuck-its– O’, my generous man, my lily, O’, my king– my diva sativa, sativa brutalica,
Botanica sprung open part deux only and only for you– kung anong gagawin ko, lahat na at ay para sayo–
Love me like the bats’ horizon craves lustfully for the sun.

Want us to paint each other awry the beautiful orange.
Baby boy, the twig, the weather tomorrow will be as calm as we’ve oracled–
So let’s tangle each other like sweet Sunday latticework,

Shady platoons of my paramours permutating
A canvas for oil made in oil as well. I’m saving
All my swaying, my braving for nuzzles of clay, and

Slaps me back into the uncoolest of origins– these are just stories,
And so many my slimes already begging for space. Will you marry it from a taste? For shall we waste
Common tools for the common fools–

I am one common fool to you, full for you–
The dopamine minions are models of moderation.
I’m on a roll like a modern day Filipino massacre.

I can no longer just mourn the commentary of it.
The soul of my loins are aching fuller of scorn by the minute.
Am a witness to the litmus, poached by a bandit.

Love can pour a shawl on a hammer, paint it like harm and forgiveness samedt.
Like a saint, like a figment, all the dockets deterred and all the daimyos that dig
Crash into the benefic of the smash cuts, bolt-latched like one of an organ match.

Look behind you. In some factories, they print
And spell the messages of doom.
This 5’3″ fella pulled a chair beside me and dared ordered mint juleps.

I’ve never seen a drink as sexy as those beasts in glasses.
I wish I could wiggle my tongue to funnel it every day,
Be reborn a classy alcoholic but only with these shabby clothes off.

It takes a great deal of courage to walk away from a war you have no place on,
But people like me who never ascend to power think every fight is their fight,
Holding our own breath for the brethren to eat a second in the light.

Finalize akuang nuzzles, aking dispositions, at ating pardonizers.
Sing the melody of my peace-forgiving Murmuratio…
There’s nothing more contraband than failed solutions.

Rave the rage like an acumen
Multilayered, like the atmospherics, but easy to shatter,
Like glass, like blades, like the grades of some graceful rampager on its ass–
In no versions of this world had it not been difficult to placate an intelligent mind.
I have left every door, every window, every li’l crawl space in my liberal home
Open for your return, like the storm you were born as, but you didn’t come.
Do return like the category thirty form that you are.

(Be my home. Be my home. Be my home. Every lie can be undone.)


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Into The Quiet, poetry
 
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