Inked Mud Grid

Natasha Newton 2016

In___anchor, one elm

A morphine field of—

Standing at a slant

The reflections aglow

Willingness to evoke

The body is quieter

A lullaby snow-fall

A deluged beck, a day

Never running away

It stays, discerning all

Grab a hurried merge

Tis’ too thick and soft . . .

The greens and blues gain

The dignity to conquer all – – –

The smell of pine needles

Flaring the nostril’s moods

Nothing will die, only re-birth

In the next season’s call.

Word Messer

I n n u m e r a b l e

A small bud pokes its head at dawn,

The swiftly accused night, has gone!

It inhales light leant by a Bourbon rose,

Dilated like a birthing vagina, it strobes.

The emotion of the bud, a holographic cell,

Forming a reciprocal sphere of rejoice.

Pushed by nature to a half globe.

The sky, a three dimensional mirror, a giant shoot.

As the yellow nightingale visits the bud,

Disturbing the uninvited spider web,

The light slants rays of attractive expansion.

The day has circled the unfurling petals

Organising its compassion, suffering no more.

Word Messer

Writhing Tides

Plush cheeks and uneven breaths, he etched her as his lip sync. His gentle grace, with his tilted hat, a shanty town danced under his fingertips! She, a strong starlet; reading his mind—up, slid a moon in his back pocket. Dropping the fog to mist to his ankles, he saw only right, to bathe his hands in this one season. Her elbows, his crook and hook to lean into, he laid his finger to her contour, making – forming new music. He wrote octaves, notes that etched satire on her hips. The mirrors were guests, anxiously waiting to reflect, violating a spectacular volcano to spew ash! They bathed faces in saliva that spat lavender-bud-aroma. The walls were props as silk sheets were a second skin! The concerto he played, on her nape, tucking her like a guitar beneath his rib. Submission’s home thundered like a Greek god was thunderous in his breath! Her body was like a lotus being homed by a dragonfly, tasting the edges and dislodging it’s jaws to place its vertebrae, neat in niche to her thirsty coves. The sky lay neat on earth__flat as gravity’s scream was hushed. Lips bled and souls were deeply tasted; from the back of the throat. The unraveled and tangled storm swallowed, destroyed by [him] the hurricane.

Word Messer

A Thousand Heels

It flits in noughts,

in tinsel body’s coy.

With, pink toes spread out,

On his chest, as nipples pout.

The belly’s circle needs a tongue

To twist, the hot___swathed troves.

Tonight, we shall feast upon flesh,

Slippery water holes shall weep.

You can explore mine, a parcelled sky

While [i] we jiggle, gyrate and cry!

Let’s loosen our joints and limb’s hosts

Let us coat the milky damp hive

Mark this fiery event, as herring’s tails—

The mechanical music of breaths___sigh

Cupped in arms are wet glistens . . .

Of shimmering roughs and tumbles

The steeple—I can’t forget – my jingle bell

Hollow Legs

No pictures, no sounds—

The sodden landscape, aromatic groves.

The racket, now bounces the ball!

Hard—against the stone cold walls . . .

A fiery road, should now be calmed

The teaming mud, is now glitter in my palms,

The humble vanity, shoots out stars,

Reincarnated again and again – bard

This beauty now rages, around still aureoles.

Shh—don’t wake the hissy streams,

My flowers I planted, are now asleep!

Word Messer

Flow

I shall swerve lovingly if chosen and

I’ll only stand another season of growth,

I sway patriarchally in loving light

I will wither eventually, in time.

Take good care of me

I have seen many weathers

The oldest and crafty type

The big-mouths and hard hands

My rose-amelia blossom head

Will sleep assuringly in your soft palms.

Word Messer

The Dance

West 5th Street

Summer 89’

Jukebox shilling

Glassy silk cut quartets

Dainty hoofs in slick soles

The index finger-taps rim.

Amidst the power smokes,

Down slightly slips a beat

The radio habits loose.

Twenty-eight steps precise,

She counts effortlessly.

A shadow of tall rubies—stands

A beautiful dream compass comes.

The smell of woody-spice,

Curled hair scraped back,

A collar stiff n slick,

Arms like barricaded flesh.

Love is not present,

Drips lust like a dubious chant.

The hands like claws of claimant

Tight n close, etched just right.

The dance of reprimand – – –

—begins

Word Messer