Savior Love, A Ditty

(NBC)

for JJCQ, w 💕

——

You derail me—
Like a cool freight
Train and I lose
My way veer so far
off track
We both know
I won’t make it
Out
And you just keep
Rolling on
You
Have agendas
Depots
Promises to keep
I fall down through
Flamboyant green woods
Dark and unfamilar
Trees snap
My wake scarred earth
And fuel leaking
ember sparks flying

Heap of coalfire
Twisted iron glowing
Glass and heart pieces
Like Parade candy
All over the ground

Torn wood catches
And I am aflame
Like a silly Valentine
In this absolution

Savior Love—
Is speaking
His licking tongues
Sharp and hot
As any devil’s tail

Choking smoke
billows can be seen
A hundred miles away
From this wreckage

And you—you
Just keep on
Keeping on

You got agendas

Depots

Promises

(To keep)

——

(c)2022 by Sanguine Woods

“L” is 4 the way u 👀 @ me… #lovepoems #poetry

Love says trust me
And your heart breaks
Again, like a stone
That isn’t supposed
To fracture,
By some ponderous law of pain
Or physics—I say
If breaking my heart
10 times or 100
Pushes me, like a
Demi-urge, toward a kind
Of deeper
Love more meaningful
Existence—then,
Yeah.
I’m ok with
That.

(C)2022 by Sanguine Woods

for JCCQ
*and Sophia, gratzi

#lgbtqia

Photo (c)2022 by JCC Quinn.

Gospel

(Etsy)

——


You, there, that
torch in your fist,
stone-green stare like
a lady of the sea,
indigo water lapping
at your feet. I met you
in a vision
from Battery Park;
a painting from the early
Hudson school of
trappers, selling fur
to hat-wearing women
in corsets laced by
whales and expectations
strolling along the
Avenue of Freedom.
I remember my little girl
touched a gilded replica
of your crown—spikes
sharp as sunrays—not
brassplate; copper;
like new pennies:
Honest Abe
watching (heads);
peering out between
Memorial pillars
(tails); like a man
unaccustomed
to karma; kept
like a prisoner,
confused—looking out
for an eon, now two,
from behind those
white marble bars.

Sunset, July 5th, Long Island, New York

Photo by Michael Fallon. Used by permission.

——

That’s like a poem.
About pink.
And warm.
And ending.
And ice cream, peach.
And laughter dying out
Slowly from every summertime
Get-together everyone
In the whole wide world
Ever had on a holiday
With family and pinwheels
And little red white and blue flags
Sticking out of the short green grass.
Its peachfuzz voice says:
We’re still free, People.
And then it goes to bed.
And we’re tired, too—
After all the talking and children
Playing and ladies laying
Out for the first suntan
Of the season…
Where you fall asleep
Right there
In that cocktail light
With or without
A reason.

—(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods

Malefic

A coal-black tar
and feathered clinging
to your soul—it croons the sigil
ouroboros gnawing
at the moon—aghast and
punctured, full—a rotting
gibbous rune—an end
of opalescence—
a stylus tipped
too soon—

(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods

(Tattoo Image: Pinterest. Photographer/artist unknown.)

1967

I wrote this poem today listening to a 1967 playlist. (Beverly Hill Hotel Photo by David Alexander*.)

This playlist is very
much like coming home
for the first time
waits for no one turn turn turn
map after endless
fucking map—
bitch map, bastard
son—deliberate
as fuck, never even heard
of the goddam G-spot
or Ventura Highway
sunshine on my shoulders—jet
planes leaving high above us
every second clouds
from both sides now closing in
California wet dream—and
the sky is no longer grey
but tinsel color and you
beat-off—on a dark desert
highway—rain on 1965
glass one wiperblade and a
prayer fucking exit to Todos Santos
hard as woodstock for
your sister’s golden hair—
daughter of the devil
himself an angel in white—
tied up in a hotel basement
(such a lovely face)
such a lovely place
ready a room for the
grateful dead and
Casey Jones—don’t be a prick
I bought that cocaine
and a ticket
to an aeroplane—
one foot stuck in 1967 like a
wasted fuck wilted
flowers in her sunset
hair—these things
I forgot to do for you—
and I had a lover once—
his long middle finger
teasing Joplin to come
out today and
put the rain away
and that music starts
to play—and oh
What’s that you say?
Mrs Robinson?
Jesus loves you more
than you could know…
whoa
whoa
whoa

(C)2021 by Sanguine Woods

*https://www.loudersound.com/features/the-story-behind-the-eagles-hotel-california-album-artwork-interview

Rag & Bone

What hope do you have?
he asked the man
holding the sacrificial lamb—it was
spotless not a
mark, virgin fleece
white as god-damned
snow. I know.
You’ve
heard
it all

before.

It curled at the corners,
pirate map—not Where to
pillage, loot, and rape—
subscriptio, titulus—those kinds of
things (there may have been an exchange of
old coins)—and
ink, not blood,
something darker, licked
the page—pitch or
tar, acrid smoking a mile
underneath the
dead forest
floor
where things grew
once,
but not

anymore.

(c)2020 by Sanguine Woods

(Photo: Pinterest)