by Seema N Amin


‘They believe laughter, laughter is the seventh layer…’



give me visions of the feast…


A blue-eyed horse,

spinning within five columns, such that

his waves become friction

for the eyes playing

circular stone and air hide and seek,



burgundy scabs light the night discoloration of the skin

A backless orange form, skipping through the wider circumference

is pulled back in, halfway ’round.


there are blindfolds, and the End-Times

are as light-footed as night watchmen sheds

imagined, or dogging cars, or tigers,

in cemeteries by cathedrals, where monks

burn a slow fire, orange-flamed blood-leaf


I prefer to watch your back,

tied to me by a blindfold loosely done,

in a whim we’d conspired to

stretch, like one of those lunges

over some pole, bench, obstacle,

horse that you are,

and the seventh layer of the soul

drops in temperature, to the green-black

sweet-heat similitude in coolness,

and I let the goose bump scarf down,

Your face a gray flame-the body is in danger of

undergoing a change of state, going gas, going water,

I tickle from the leaking pulse

of the loins, to the dry throat

inside the hobo’s sex-sun straddle,

that knows penetration is an illusion.

I race you to the street.

I end in an infamy thrice removed from, but

like,  peace.

(Visited 29 times, 1 visits today)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *