Wind-chariots of love
white or melting beneath the skin,
stations lost in midnight peace or rebellion,
Wild storm beneath your gown
and the crazy, green silence
of lonely hospital rooms
Angela,
stay a while here with me
in this land of pink and sleep.
Violin in your sleep,
softly we stand,
our fingers quietly kissing in sand and light.
I could be your little orange town
as you summon a magi in sleep,
I could be your dream.
A town in the skies,
all the roads here lead to sleep,
and little paraffin birds spread out their wings
in water and dreams.
White eyes among nude petals
thirst for the fragile beak of the sky,
your lips carve music in the clouds.
Once again,
our lips will waltz in touch
as I hold you in me
in this city of love.
Angela,
You shall touch me again
in love or sleep,
as the piano will find a beat
along the wounded strings of your heart.
Touch and angel lust,
your voice wild across the winter night
in my blue telephone,
Won’t you touch my lips
with a song or a kiss?
Won’t you cry,
my mad rain lover?
Blue sea-horses diving in your eyes,
fortissimo in your breast,
we lie down and shiver
beneath the porcupine breath of the sky.
Your eyes in my eyes,
your kisses fractured along the liquid, orange throat
of the lemonade evening,
here we are, lying down
amidst the sound and the city
in our little, paper-boat across the skies.
Glory of harmony in your starry laughter,
wet roses in your molten copper voice,
my finger runs along the wild black waves of your hair
like Neptune’s seas.
Beauty in the piano land,
mist and lovers beside the river,
your lips travel time
and spill ancient folklore of love.
Send me the fragrance of your breath
and some quatrains hidden in snow
as we remember old men leaning out of windows
in the December sun.
Death beside the ocean
in the purple carriage of winter,
your body worn in time and beauty
will sway like a wild flower in last ecstasy.
Dear Angela, my love,
the moon in her white gown, shall not know
what it is to wan inside a lover’s last sigh;
while the trees, the wind and light
will a build an epitaph for our kiss.
Our hands entwined in love,
our clocks melting down our thighs,
the rainbow will give rise to a new time.
Our faces and naked touch returning
to the soul of brown God
in the white lanes of sleep
leading to Brahma’s feet.
White sheets, white unslept pillows, white feet
and white song of parakeets rising like war
in this afternoon air of silence and radiance.
Your letters are little holy ruins
that make monuments for the ants
in rain; your voice anoints with joy
Aurora’s glowing horses of dawn.
Last smoke in your eyes,
last smoke from the chimneys of earth,
the last song for my fingers.
Amidst this love,
this ambrosial lust for lilies
and music from the stars
the song of vultures on earth
and specimens of slow, brown decay,
Angela,
I must leave you again
amidst the poem and tower
in the clouds,
amidst the elves and white lanes of sleep,
my fingers still stroking
the wild sitar in your eyes at sunset.
Let our love run through valleys in sleep,
like bloodstreams through the harmonica.
Let our death-song come to an end
in this land of camphor and blue.
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