:::in service:::

there is solace here
i climbed into your lap
beneath canopies of wisteria
under a blanket
within the stars
earth black
and evening humming
like wet tongues in ears
for the first time and around
and in the morning i see clearly
then you cover my eyes with yours
quiet now,
hand to mouth
and evermore,
the ties they bind
a walking floor
watch you above me
is love in light
softly move down
again wait for the night.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::prose from the beach in february:::

i can see Orion in August.
i feel humidity tangling my hair,
pulling it as a lover, and holding fast.
i feel naked sinking into deep wet sand.
i take Orion in a breath...
can my breath push against the oceans endless whisper?
perhaps the oceans whisper is a rage,
a passion...
could this breath i exhale...
can it reach the heavens by incidental experiment,
and in doing so make light from darkness?
with this breath i sing sweet and pure
i touch my body and i know that it is a corpse,
i take spirit and thought and exhale
in doing so i kiss Orion and a truth is revealed,
this makes me alive, transcendent and clean.
everything i have, take now...
everything i would want, i cannot bear to think of....
i need nothing save this peace, stillness,
and a mouth upon mine,
take this insipid life,
turn it out with your breath
and let go...
the dreams drift lazily back down from the heavens,
from Orion's bow they were cast,
to heal? to make true? to discover...
within our hearts they lie down
and remain
in August
now i see.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::if you are reading this:::

what are my possessions?
am i so vain, so ignorant, do i own this light that i see with?
is this silver ring, a child of time and earths womb...is this mine?
the cheek that blushes, pressed to earth silently whispers it's return.
one man will eat with his hands and another with gold,
one drinks from cupped hands and another from glass...
which is more worthy of death?
to whom will death become?
Ah! the finest death for you my lord!

i cry, love, and even the tears i cannot claim.
i drink her water, i eat what is alive, what feeds upon us...
and i am granted a tear, and a step forward, and doubt, a watery dream.
after some time, all of your trinkets gone...
and a generation passes by,
then another,
and you are forgotten...
and your trinkets are in a strangers drawer...
but you held them ever so tightly...

what are my possessions?
i would like for you to have them.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::

:::sumtimes but not usually:::

there are times which i compare
to these and then i bite my tongue
i hold my mouth so still my mind
do not make known what you have learned.
ever close and call me back
push your whores and you attack
this is where they always go
a steeplechase, an open door.

a binding for the frail and decayed
whose bodies you take and you're unafraid
but too much, is not enough i fear
a human path, a forest clear.
sometime when i've laid down alone
i see them behind me, you their throne
i see you years behind me now
cast ahead by your self and doubt.
they are engraved with your nails and teeth
ever patient at your feet,
and i a sole possession of sorts
of some dream i'd made real
but forgotten at once.

 

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::