Ink

I dip my feather pen into you,
ink bottle of inspiration,
as I dip my tongue into you
your perspiration,
licking at the frosty sides.

Trailing my fingers across your palm-frond skin
I drown my feet in this opaque lake
and swim to the bottom, wishing
I could be forever
smeared here with the coral red seaweed
(where bubbles float and quiet is the norm)
but I see myself a maple leaf mirage
with rusted bark arms and crow black legs,
entangled in your branches,
as whispered and wandering as my own;
together we make a racket.

Breathtaking
tantrums and smoldering feet
venture across embedded nails
and massacre our limbs to uncover our souls.
In this scrawled black metaphor,
we roll with the waves
in a melting pot of graphite milk,
condensing ourselves
into ripples of black ink and soon
we all become raven-haired.


*edited*
[April 16th,2004]

by Zoe Nyght

Comments (3)

Its true its a remarkable poem...Loved the name...very attractive title...just by reading the title...
i swear, i don't understand how a poem like this could get such a low score. yours is some of the most vivid and provoking poetry here. i always enjoy seeing your name up on the homepage. keep them coming. Jake
Some nice images in this piece. I particularly like '...condensing ourselves into ripples of black ink and soon we all become raven-haired.' Wow.