It's just poetry, it won't bite

Holy Candle Blues


03.21.18 Posted in today's words by

Michael D. Amitin lives and writes in Paris, France.

Holy Candle Blues
By Michael D. Amitin

In the red-sweet sunset
angel brother bent his blown glass ear over the wall of eternity
listening in on my restless rathouse jam.

She entered peeling story-caked walls
riding lightning rod broom
swept me out to half-dippermoon bridge
we swung downtown where
waltzing heirs warmed six-figure derrieres above smorgasbord fires
I faked all the right questions into hell’s Paradise

panting at the emerald city orgasm
waiting beneath her olive skin gypsy thin cocktail feast
ignoring the runaway beast

and someone beamed
they make a great couple
as we dished sweat
to god’s blistering last-chance desperate romance bugle call
my ragged sailor heart pirouetting out the hornpipe door
where muddy cliffs lick their chops and more..

On the way down
the devil in white linen gown served dark red obsession wine
before flaming flambéé soft brown coconut limbs stole my grin
a fly doing backflips in the honey pot.

The lava-baked sea
million miles away
a moaning rusted ship creaked like a red infection
begging to be freed from the last ripples in that skin game port.

You knew all along prophet of the beautiful tracks
that my ramble played in a forest of doom
I surrender dear Monk in the sad samba night.

That wind pushed me mountains away
flushed me out of hiding in the prehistoric pubescent
road-burnt grotto
at the piano bar you played me like a thundering chord
till a midnight candle grabbed the shades
fire roaring down in flames
we crawled like god’s sweet snails to the clear-as-a-bell day.

Glaring up through the dark blue smoke
where red sunset angel rained wild, untamed amazing grace ashes
down on desperate love’s last twitch
applauding the singed curtain call
live! live! he cried from his bongo perch on heaven street

hot orange coals fading in the chilled breeze
words we’ll never speak again you and I
unless fate has too much time to deal strange train cards.

This harp strung midnight reverie
sad violins hijack innocent dreams
and twist the arm of violet-coated wishes.

In my hidden dark room
holy candle blues . . .
whispers a sea wind blowing.



One Response to “Holy Candle Blues”

  1. Hiram Larew says:

    Yes!

Latest Podcast Episode
0:00
0:00
vox poetica archives