A woman,
my stone-faced lover,
a woman and her smells.
The yellow haze of melancholy lampposts.
Your hair consumes you.
Prowling
by Sam Vaknin
The little things we do together
to give up life.
The percolating coffee,
your aromatic breath,
the dream that glues
your eyelids to my cheek.
We both relent relentlessly.
Your hair flows to its end,
a natural cascade,
a velvet avalanche
buries my hands.
In motion paralysed,
we prowl each other's
hunting grounds.
Day breaks, our backs
turned to the light
in dark refusal.
Getting Old
by Sam Vaknin
The sageing flesh,
a wrinkled vicedom.
The veined reverberation
of a life consumed.
On corneas imprinted
with a thousand dreams,
now stage penumbral plays
directed by a sight receding
and a brain enraged.
To fall, as curtains call,
to bow the last,
rendered a sepia image
in a camera obscured,
a line of credits,
fully exhausted,
fully endured.
Sally Ann
by Sam Vaknin
I wrote, Sally Ann, I wrote:
Shot from the cannon of abuse
as unwise missiles do.
Course set.
Explosive clouds that mark
your video destination.
Experts interpret,
pricking with laser markers,
inflated dialects
of doom.
Hitting the target, you
splinter, a spectacle
of fire and of smoke.
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