Your elegant form
right before me
a target for my desire
libido directed
outward
yet even now
you are breaking apart
into string theory
shrapnel of what you once were
leaving an outline
of an exquisite body
still provocative enough
to drive me mad
yet I see through you now
as kittenishly you lean forward
accentuating your well endowed proportions
gentle swells that set you apart
as your hands spread
and you lay them gently
upon darkness and light
positive and negative
your mind scattering
a web of veins
that fades into black cloudy smoke
and disappears into a vast horizon
I have as of yet failed to see.

A released video message
offering condolences
for people casting their ballots
as mortar rounds and bombs
shake them down there
where the unemployment generates shudders
and those of principle have little connection
with reality.

– matt at shadow of iris

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[Inspired by the work of Peter Gric.]

A crow in a hanging cage
shifts its weight uneasily
and drinks a little water
while looking down below
at a petite cloying girl
sitting on a plush divan;
outwardly
she is innocence personified
dull and boring –
but the crow sees
where others eyes fail
he knows from outside in
she wears long sleek claw tipped
gloves of vermillion
that stretch into
a plush dress of silk
that glimmers
and is complete with a tail
that gently swishes
back and forth
back and forth,
then
there is the matching red cat mask
from which the femme fatale
winks
and let’s the crow know
just what she intends.

Uneven progress
towards political
instability
threatens to unravel
and then implode
as a new crisis provokes
a purge of allies
leaving old enemies
near to the hearts of the people
and the atmosphere
fatally
poisoned.

– matt at shadow of iris

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[First verse inspired by the work of Ray Caesar.]

They asked him to paint the virgin Mary
along with her small child
instead he painted the king’s lover
on a throne, she’d never have
with an heir, she’d never bear.

She sits there calmly
on the Queen’s chair,
a jewel encrusted crown
upon her hair plucked forehead
and an ermine-lined cloak
resting gently upon her shoulders;
the laces that hold
the upper two halves of her dress together
have been loosened
so that one side falls away
to expose a single, full
and perfectly rounded
breast
more erotic, than tender
more seductive, than maternal
a magnetic lunar globe
that pulls all eyes
in.

The boy that sits on her lap
could careless
about his mother’s nipple
but sits already
with the weight of kings
upon his shoulders;
there is a detached air
about this naked rotund prince
as he points with disintrest
below his mother’s waste
to something hidden there
under the folds of her dress;
he can follow the golden chain
far back
and understands
his own
carnal origins.

Both the virgin and her babe
are white as snow
against a background
of endless cherubim and seraphim
some so cold and so blue
you can feel the ice on their breath
and others so hot and so red
that surely they seethe from within;
small sensual angels
in the flesh
shimmering and smooth
profane.

The virgin herself is so beautiful
that a thousand words
could never
ever
do her justice,
she is as delicate as a porcelain doll
and yet as lithe and poised
as a swan gliding across still water.

So thin as to barely be seen,
a veil surounds her oval face
and has been pushed back
to offer an invitation;
but for now she demurs
her wide eyes staring downwards
nearly closed
at a spot not near
but someplace far, far away.

This is how she will tempt you
when you step in closer
and closer
to gently lift her chin
and without thought
let her lips
meet your own.

– matt at shadow of iris

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[The enemies of King Charles VII of France likely poisoned Agnès Sorel with mercury years before Jean Fouquet even began his beautiful painting of her contained in the Melun Diptych.]

They say
the lame god molded the clay
into the likeness of a woman
fairer than the earth had ever seen;
and the bright eyed goddess clothed her
in delicate robes that
human hands could have never knitted;
the divine Graces put a necklace
of shimmering pearls around her neck
and they sparkled like the stars at night;
Time put the sweet fragrance
of spring flowers into her hair
and even into her private parts
so that men would be drawn there;
the goddess of wisdom
taught her wit
and how to lie enchantingly
so that none would want the truth;
and the goddess of love
taught her how to talk and move
with such allure
that she would be irresistible;
they called her Pandora
and they gave to her a box
with the explicit instructions
that she should never open it,
but they winked among themselves
even as they instructed her;
finally, they sent her among men
in the hope
that she would save them.

– matt at shadow of iris

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Rinse the surface thoroughly
and pat it dry with a thirsty towel
pour on a fresh coat
of rich smooth oil, extra-virgin
and with added spices
rub over the entire surface
inside and out
then slowly lower to the hearth
and rotate gently
until ripe and ready.

She wore eye shadow
applied in a wide arch over each eye
with a slender line underneath,
the color of Iris;
her eyes glowed
massive and huge
and she had thick black glossy hair
that framed her delicate face.

She said,
lay me on the large round surface
cover me in fragile silk
the color of azure
and let it flow like cream
over my bare skin
while I curl up
head in arms
and sleep
awaiting his pleasure.

Her brother had said,
I’ll tell you what he wants
it is to lay you out upon a plate
a feast for him
something for him to devour
he’ll have you just lay there
hurt and sad
a morsel serving no other purpose
than to satiate his ravenous needs
a soul on a saucer
a candied dish
for him to devour.

And in the distance
an apostate whispered
barely audible murmurs,
to expose oneself
to place oneself
up front
desire projected outward
a stroll on the street
under a red light
victims hidden
behind veiled streams
and closed doors.

– matt at shadow of iris

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[Inspired by the work of Esao Andrews.]

Moving through the water
feeling so lonely
that it’s poignant
when the mood hits me
it’s sudden and unexpected
convulsive arching
and raspy clicks
my body all at once
alien
and out of control;
a female mate hears me
and one reaction
begets another
inner demons for us both
near but far
she begins her own
dizzying dance
and gradually she nears me
then just when I think I’ve got her
a flip from her side
a flick really
a wave
and she’s gone
leaving me punctured
with spores she has flung
that sprinkle my back
like a dozen darts
the pain piquant
as I am drilled into
by each one of them
tiny nestling things
that burrow through my skin
and make pockets for themselves;
the earlier excitation I had felt
dissipates into pain
and then nothingness
leaving me forlorn
melancholy
dilapidated
and gently floating
back down
down into the doldrums
of the murky mud
where I console myself
sucking algae and slime
and waiting
as the days go by
until there is movement
there beneath my skin
subtle at first
barely noticeable
but each day
more and more annoying
a burden I am desperate
to be free of
small swimmers
underneath my skin
each in their own pocket
these swimmers
desperately want to be free
they scrounge around
and scratch
waiting for the day
when finally
as impulsive as I was
they push out
and burst free
the sharpness of each burst
a singular scintillating pain
bright in its color
each burst renews it
a frightening repetition
until it’s over
leaving me
exhausted
grotesque
and pockmarked
yet relieved
my children have now gone
and I’m free again
until the next time.

– matt at shadow of iris

[This poem, although differing from, was inspired by the reproductive life of the Surinam Toad.]

If a stranger walks into your life
with an uncertain role to play
don’t leave the stranger in left field.

A wingless angel
stark naked
and running into battle
with nothing
but spooks at her side
three bodiless spooks
with strangely oblong
old faces
one with a lolling tongue
the other with a pensive look
and one that lectures the enemy
even as it flies forward to meet them
a fourth little spook has a body
and runs forward with unfathomable terror
written across its small face
– he is the smart one
for he knows what enemy
he is the going forward to meet
and he would dash away
if given half a chance –
the angel bonds him
with a thin metallic rope
and her hand is right there
at the nape of his neck
keeping him in place;
she’s a mean looking angel
with burning eyes, twisted lips
and a briar of thick tangled hair
hollering as she strides forward
to greet the encroaching armies of evil
she’s just skin and bones
and her halo
makes her an easy target.

The father of modern analysis
is at odds with
the mother of all chance.

– matt at shadow of iris

[Middle verse inspired by a work of Zdzislaw Beksinski.]

On the top of a hill
out in the barrens
stands a three story house
with two windows
on each side
on each floor;
an old house
with plaster falling off
here and there
walls, fanned and cracked
soiled and weather-beaten;
by the house stands and breathes
a leafless tree
aged and wearied
its massive trunk bubbling up
from thick gnarled roots
windblown and twisted
it seeps into
a first floor window
like a giant winding snake
whose head then splits
and emerges out two windows
each on the second floor
each a corner apart;
several subsidiary branches
continue
backwards and forwards
in and out of the house
in and out of the windows
yet always up and away;
the tree trunk
a hydra folding into itself
and into the house
every which way possible
a fusion of house and tree
until the tree finally breaks free
into a network of slender tendrils
that gently surrounds the house
and protects it
a soft halo
that quivers and shakes
in the dry wind
that sweeps over the hill
and has done so
every day
for as long as
anyone can remember.

The cold movement
of the serpent
around your body
as it begins to squeeze
frosty scales
across burning flesh
a firm embrace
a powerful extended arm
holding you securely
desire and hunger mingled
finally fused
the flicker of the forked tongue
across the nape of your neck
a sensuous kiss
a venomous bite
mutual sleep.

He said,
Eve sinned first.
She said,
Eve was told
she’d surly die
on the day she ate from the tree,
did she?
He said,
I’m not sure
but she definitely didn’t
have a good day.

– matt at shadow of iris

[First verse inspired by a work of Zdzislaw Beksinski.]

She stands coyly before me
hiding her real face
this is the face she puts on
for the public
a blank face made for battle
she has made many kills
and now she stands before me
with her legs crossed
and both hands on her hips
leaning back attractively
and staring through me
she wears upon her
the marks of her own crucifixion
death by a thousand cuts
behind her hides
her offspring
from a lover she had
an eternity ago
gently and shyly
this child extends a hand out
from behind his mother
and offers a small emblem
of his desire
to steal my heart away.

Petite
and somewhat shy
wait another year
push me to the floor
the youngest child
on the track of life
facing social challenges
and self-fulfilling prophesies
never hold back
know your child
want their opinions.

– matt at shadow of iris

Tugging at my shoulder
soft hands turn to claws
that seep in
refusing to release me
… fading
your fragrant breath
on the nape of my neck
sweet roses and pink flesh
then something else
washes it away
a biting smell
pungent
over ripe cheese
… gagging
place your lips there
just under the ear
then with the tip of the tongue
trace the contour down
to my neck
leave me panting, gasping
as you bite
razor sharp and precise
a cherry sundae
… draining
dizzy now and reeling
there’s little left of me
you’re pale and bloodless
I as well
yet you’re hot to touch
too hot, and smooth
the pain you invoke
excruciating, pleasurable
it’s all okay up to a point
it’s when the gentle purring
leaves
the song stops
a last call
that’s when I hear it
the screeches
three wild screeches
wild bird calls
craven calls
that rip me apart
… dying
a bird attack
high pitched and piercing
there’s more to you
than the surface
that damn song
can’t you bring it back
… no
predatory female spirits
fluttering
always a price to pay.

– matt at shadowofiris