Poem By A. L. Breitling

As she is, she is kept
under some cold illicit rock
where feminine and tension
coil together, compressing
violence and desire.
In the mind’s-eye,
images dance in twisted potential,
and the sinuous pleasure of a muscle tearing
suddenly brings a taste of blood
and the careless difference
of a bedsheet against the back.
There is in this a distant ozone sense –
the crack of a shaft of lightning
in one square inch of air.
In the apprehension of a trembling confession,
in the singular act of emotionally stumbling,
there is a moment in the eyes
which sees far more than casual tilt of face
and dismissing wave of hand.
There is the sting of possibility
and the mixing of love and madness.

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What have you got there?
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that aren’t quite so unintended or random
but you can’t see them in the mechanism,


With my heart in my hand,


Proteus the shape shifter,
in every way potential,
arose: broad shoulders, rounded breast,
divided between ocean and miasmal mist –


Garden is not garden
or the farthest hedge,
or the tea-rose trellis
where the glass snake rests his head

To Beauty

Drink to me only with thine eyes
and leave the beer for yours truly.
I know it’s hard not to despise
this poetic ha and quite unruly