March 25th, 2010
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Now you move
across pools of liquified despair
black ink that rears up
and splashes indiscretion
across the bow of your soul
each slosh a specter
of a ghost you’ve left behind
returned
in a tumult of wind so strong
it churns the ocean to its bottom
and strips away your skin and flesh
leaving your bones exposed
and you with nothing
but that white spot on the horizon
the one you look to
when the harpies call
with their sweet bird song
and the promise of safety
if only you’d veer
just slightly from the path
that in and of itself
moves.
- – matt at shadow of iris
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[Inspired by the work of Leo Plaw]
March 23rd, 2010
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You follow me down paths
that lead in circles
and I reject you
however much I want you
yet you still come
and you are still there.
The sound of raindrops
falling in a puddle;
there’s a rhythm there
and a cadence;
at times
it’s all that holds me together.
How can you run
from something you want so much?
How is it you can do that
and not break down?
You’ll find me there
in that clearing in the forest
early in the morning
when the dew is still on the grass
and the moon hasn’t yet faded
and when you do
you’ll have me
because if you go that far
I can’t not
give into you.
– matt at shadow of iris
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March 8th, 2010
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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.]
February 24th, 2010
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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.]
February 22nd, 2010
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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.]
February 16th, 2010
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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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