Finding open Space
…do you think the angels
are only full of love?
…think again the friend
who breathes behind me like
a soft-spoken day.
What have you awakened too?
…does it have a name?
…why must we sleep with our eyes closed?
Our language fails us…at a time like this,
when…my body is casting a shadow upon
these words like offerings of purple-plum roses,
and they drip on the floor too ripe to be contained…
too seasoned to be on display.
The current of truth is carrying you
through rough waters with wise words and
This journey does not come without a price tag:
We cannot play without the grave…so close…
one can smell the smoke swirling sweetly
upon the waters of Varanasi…
Let us close our eyes and honor
the truth, there is no escape…
I see it in the sunken eyes of what use
to sparkle with conversation and life…
The vocal cracking of the bones and
the crown of the crone who lies in her bed
beckoning death with her sultry whispered song.
…do you think the angels
are only full of love?
©2015 Gesso Cocteau Studios
…in memory of an artist….
imprinted with keys,
ink or tattooed braille,
quill sword embedded
in flesh where soft meets line.
Neither paint, color,
breath caught in lung________
or fruit colored nudes
sin split open seeds exposed,
littered with love making stories
how you made them
moan and merge
yielding tenderness and lust into
a braided knot….
Yet none of the above
can douse or dismantle this
sweet bitter burn.
Your eyes between
a black tangled forest of your mane
and my empty hunger for you__________
the haunting prequel to us
is miles apart
screaming erotic distances.
______Who can domesticate this feral feline
who hisses at the hand who feeds her_
who turns her whipped back
on silk comfort and reaches for you.
Advance and retreat
flesh and trunk
you piercing the marrow of my bone
with your laughing innocence
me opening wide to receive this fragrant fable…
The snake who slithers down the chakra
of my spine
you asking me questions
my answer begging you to touch_
the brush and hand
the chasing tool and flesh
has turned to blood____
What would Tolestoy
think….watching me throw myself
beneath the blade of your words
wrist to elbow
bleeding out like a perfect
a tiny female
trying to grasp
a moving landscape…
Neither impromptu typed words
travelling through fiber optics
imperfect like my desire
nor Leo’s last paragraph,
“Surmounting the sensation of an
unreal immobility in space,
and to admit a touch or motion
we could not perceive of by sense.”
We are all subject to analysis
and the earth that we root ourselves to
is spinning through space…..
We are all sunyata
hollow and void
but we are also swollen and growing
into an undetermined or unspecified thing
Maybe I am a bird
with wings of water
for somewhere to land
maybe your standing
in one of your paintings
with your hands held open
I land_______rolling into human skin
feeling your breath upon
my sealed lips________
and we swell into
ancient and mythological,
returning to one another…..
May 23 2013
the taste of thirst…
If metaphors of pain
are what you remember
may my mouth be open to the ground
burying our prayer
in open hands of water.
If the dampness
of my tongue
that there is now an implacable silence…
If you dream of me
walking through a forest upon my knees
from the roots of tangled trees
weave me a crown without thorns
and place it upon my feet.
If this new but familiar emptiness
kisses you with parched lips
and the cut of a thousand swords
rips through your tongue
and if you decide to speak
obey the silence you have commanded…
If you decide to look and cannot find me
remember this space was pure
open to all possibilities
now buried by void.
We have both been frightened
by being and not being
with pale patience are mouths went mute
and the curves of my body unwrapped their need
into the shadows of your voice no longer respondent…
If this knowing
that I would come to you
and struggle between a ledge and a river,
in your voice that has lived a thousand years
would you have said …just once….
“be with me” ?
The flavor of having is so often
bitter and sweet…
it is the taste of the tongue between the crevice
the taste of thirst…
Gesso Cocteau 2013 ©
Song of Desire
(mi canción del deseo)
when I realized the actuality of your being was a perceptible idea
but not a tangible emotion I left…
I left our playground…
our temple ….
our palace of sensuality ….
to your vanishing glaze as I watched it fall
upon the bloom of full cheeks
and the blush of a rose…
bittersweet the scent of blood….the concept of youth…
Memory has a touch….
an impression that words cannot embrace…
our derivative pleasure of mythological desire
was a construct of shadowy words
whose impressions only left me wanting more….
one cannot appease an appetite with illusions
and this avid thirst I had for you only left my lips
parched and impatient….
no moist kiss of attainment ….
but still……the need …..the urge….the wish….
Forgive me for wanting the idea of you…
from scattered phrases of our conversations….
the song of your ebony beak….
the apparent expressions of our presences and desertions….
the dominion of our sensualistic lexicon which released
a glossary of our imagination….
During this interval my personal narrative
of guttural pleasure lays scattered
amongst this unhallowed paradise…
I sense beneath your darkness a keen vision….
a piercing gaze…your obscure objects of desire….
being in the eye of your desire never taught me
what exactly your inclination was….
desire is never without the projection of want…
life wanting itself through the movement of desiring…
and yet……the true object of our craving may not have been
what we necessarily thought in the beginning…
We do not always know what we want…
desire is mysterious….
divine dimensions of hunger…
desire which gives birth to this lubricating lucidity ___
life cannot be divided between the sacred and the profane….
I bow my head in shamelessly celebration of
what was our sweet force of lust and undeniable pleasure….
The coronation of my tail with your black feathers….
the claw impaled within …the gold emptying….the water
of want and the white milk you made from my blood…
Your fallen whip of black thorns…
the weeping of my body…
the fire that never finds its blaze…
Desire is the essence of life….it is how life began…
It is where we started…
_______ In a shadowy inked cavity….…a cavern….tenebrous den….
where dark skinned birds with beaked apertures watch….
where the hollow are probed…..the holy are indecent and blasphemous…..
where you and I ……can only whisper who we might have been…
©Gesso Cocteau 2015
Finding the edge
was so easy, falling off
Resisting the edge seemed
The palms bent their wings
into the sun
fringed from the ripping
of the wind, frayed by their own design.
The bald man babbled prayers
to a patriarch god
who sat roasting his son on a spit.
And the rotund comedian
who bent out of control
lay dying on the 60th floor.
I realize the edge is sharp,
perhaps not as cutting
as the words that slit your tongue
forking their way through my heart_____
but sharp enough to sting and to stiffen
into a ridge of realizing.
The warm bath water
that blanketed my cold
and gathered comfort
now leaves me wet.
I am slipping off the edge
and when they find me
naked and torn,
they will shake their heads and say,
“she wrote such common poems.”
© Gesso Cocteau