Immaculada de Soul: Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban
I speak low lest
my love evaporates
before e’en kissed
by your infant’s breath,
and beg before day’s
ascends to nightfall;
small child, look at me
one last time
before you crawl away as slow
as time roams vast.
Too soon tomorrow’s
with the chirps of sweet song,
will bow to cradle this dear life –
and since time nor death
show mercy –
warm arms, other than mine
shall hold him, and voyage with him
to a strange, beatific world,
where all will be waiting.
To those who weep when
for those whose days
are stolen by black dogs –
and even to those who keep
sanity all to themselves,
or those who sleep
half jacked up to avoid Mondays
all jazzed up on life, hot on the tail
of a trail behind blazing Mars.
To those who Sunday is the day to bleed,
and for those who wept when Jesus slept,
but sigh for those of us who weep
for humanity on its path to oblivion,
but have nowhere left to go,
I raise my glass.
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Picture: Jay Nabonne
charcoal clouds smudged by thumbs
once haughty –
leaned before angled perpendicular
with promises of black line afterlife; mid air
heady, hung like his smokers’ lungs –
fringed, black laced –
grieving for some time
and for something sinister – brooding
but not quite imagined, not quite
realised on life’s stark canvas
where thumbs are shadow puppets
still stuck in contemplation.
how does one recreate visions of the dying,
and paint death’s culprit edges, dimly
lit by shadows inside wheezing
smoke filters fraying cushions
of shape shifting disease –
hidden, toxically poised – exhaled,
life is spent nervous energy and regrets –
all bad scions; not a good wash for pretty
pastels caught in a ridiculous tango
with painter, thumb and a wispy capacity
of mournful oxygen rattling alone on canvas.