^The Marriage in Portobello^

This is
A wet Sunday
Morning, in {Portobello} and from my window, I can see cars passing on the bridge/ and I’m counting raindrops. Slowly-

This is
A rainy old
Day, in [Portobello] and from my window, I can see your dark daughters in parade/ and I imagine your naked footstep/…/ Secretly-

This is
A spendthrift Sunday
Mood, in (Portobello) and in my soul, I can see your Elysian eyes – crossing over the ridge/ and I feel churches growing in my palms. Sacredly-

This is
A Sunday
Meláncholy Morning, in <Portobello> and through my fever, I can hear time/ and I’m counting the weight of your death as you Bite/Carelessly/A Moon. ‘Tenderly’-

This is
A nascent Sunday
Delirium, in |Pórtobéllo| and through the dormer that I don’t have, I can see you canoeing.through.a.vulnerable.charade.of.fathers, and I believe: I am: addicted to your latent calamity. Sanely-

This is
A personal Sunday
Self Arson, in ≤Portobello≥ and from my screen, I can see the panoply of your words/ and through my scream I -reach-reach-reach- for the Irreverent. Fiercely-

This is
An intricate Sunday
Lovemaking, in *Portobello*, crowned by the suÑ that has left/ and if I could fritter your cries, I would; but; from; where; I; stand; I; can’t; catch; your; drumming; voice;

only
the noise
of liminal
dandelions
as they
strike through the air
in their always private
orgasms.


Kandinsky - In Blue

Kandinsky – In Blue