How lyrically beautiful,
and tragic,
the ballad of binary stars,
engaging the rogue symmetry
and slow-burn turns of a lonely ballet,
two stars,
gravity-bound to one another,
sharing a common orbit,
an elliptical intimacy,
yet never touching,
a via negativa
of grace at play,
a magnetic flirting
of blown charged kisses,
and radiant spread
of bluehot wavelengths
that leave ghostprints
on their asking voids,
and in those rare exceptional
cases where the binaries do merge
and conjoin,
Eros explodingly ensues
in pooling corteges of light
and gospel,
testifying to the magnifience
of stars in love,
in the whitehot throes of cosmic lust,
colliding
once
and forever.
My dream,
or need,
has always been
to gauge
and organize my mania
into something
resembling music,
or at least rhythmical sutures
detailing the heart’s lighted country
of scars
while proving,
beyond shadows,
its valiant worth.
Greater flow dictates–
let it go, let it all go,
respire in wonder.
Photo by Philipe Hugonnard
Time slowed,
and I carefully studied
what amounted to a
prophetic X-ray,
showing me the void within,
her future ghostlife,
or perhaps mine,
grinning at me
like a black hole,
an atomizing tantalus
with a ravenous appetite
and pearls for teeth.
Beginnings
are never just beginnings
but endings and middles
all at once,
Time, that slippery procreative
eel, siring its own gospel brood,
leaves us with a charge
of options from which to bond
and choose
in a stream unending
in its roundabout turns
toward the infinite.
Touch me
where I am not,
where the fade
meets the form,
where the furtive scent
of glisten
perfumes its own root cause
and fable,
give to me
the dirty dinghied
secrets of the center,
the storied core,
which, in onrushing
tidals of prickly light
will wipe away
all history and identity,
and leave us amnesiacs
with a flair
for the pooling memory
of skin.
It is in the dark,
the wild opaque frontier
of scent and missive,
where the thesis of glimmer
bares recognition
upon who
and how much
we are not
when touching,
the run of love
a gradient quicksilver
etched
in pulsing granaries of Braille,
in spirals turning dreamwise.
In the necklaced orgy of stars,
the molten bandolier, I found one,
blatantly cursive and blue-hot,
calling to my center of gravity,
my throbbing crisis, and I fell
in love, purloining the impossible
to give the heart its silent crush,
and fading due.
Through winter’s icewalk,
the heart, a lonely hunter,
dares to prey on light.
The slow, long walk home,
across a frozen tundra–
The sun smiles, faintly.
John Biscello 