We need to kiss more!
We haven't even kissed yet.
Well not the new Jeremy.
You might hate it!
you could love it?
It could be your favorite flavor,
or what you think about
wrapped around your toilet bowl.
It could be your manic regret,
or make you forget...
We truely need to kiss more!
I remember how you kissed
and crave you
like a drowning man needs air
I'll kiss everything,
everywhere
poem by Jerome Moore
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Idlewave
They did well in sexual and crystallographic earth,
with their expressions and dialects ad hoc.
'be your own shit'
'never piss into the wind'
it is a light conversation we hash, intensified by drums
startled then trampled by a thirty key detailed roll in the hay,
its the type of motion, its tidal wave from a role in the bay but now its a darker wave or as he asked disaster?
poem by Jerome Moore
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Sky reflected from her mouth
The waves kneaded the beach like fingers
on flesh, like shadow on light.
Sands pulled at until drowned.
The clouds like tattered sailers curse and throw earings
to the swelling sea
Stars, the orange cream swirls, jocund breeze, horizon undone.
and it all reflects from your mouth: and in it I'm lost then found then lost again.
pearls of teeth, sweet jellyfish tongue, cavernous ribs of eternity.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Readings Of Sex
You may be irresistible
with those glasses,
your face, your nose, your cheeks, your neck!
all your fleshy parts
naked before me.
The diamond of your room reflecting from pains
and lenses.
Our glasses tangled
like two bodies wrapped by nori
like calypso oceans.
Without them you are blushing
and I am blurry.
I felt both kisses
on my neck
and said it before
long before
just with someone elses words.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Colorblind Day
I trace out a forest with my fingers.
Trees rise like cities.
Naked branches blush under the evergreen
The sun or moon looked like a orange creamsicle
and night is fallinf like a black veil every step I take.
Visions of indians behind teh embancment of the railroad
brings me paranoia and the swans slung out on the pond like light bulb reflections in the sky.
it all escapes me as the day goes colorblind.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Maine Woods
Rooftops echo like a canyon lake
crashing all around me it leaks
thunder growls hard and loud in the bushes
loud enough to put fear of god in me
drops drip into the tent like time
I share a tent with my brother both shaking wearily,
and I cry a little in front of my brother and he understands,
as the rain collects in puddles under our human bodies shaking
and the storm is quiet until the window closes
poem by Jerome Moore
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She Washes Her Legs In The Fountain
sitting on the perch of the fountain
she sang to figures holding their basins
her voice cracking their ears
her voice swelling in the clouds
ripping them to tatters
her stockings are ink stained
sitting on her perch she washed her legs
and the fountain flowers fall to her feet.
behind her was a city of sapphire
surrounded by mountains of coral
and glass pine trees.
she finished washing and left a blood trail to her bed.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Put a tiger in the gas tank.
a meal of knuckle sandwich and humble pie
krupa could make swiss cheese out of Roach
If he can catch him that is.
Roach is burning in the ash tray
while Krupa is burning up the drapes
Roach is in putter around outer space
he places your finger on the pulse
Krupa is like an octopus arms all over the place
Roach is like an electric eels embrace
Roach knows foreplay but krupa surprises me
just depends on my mood I guess
poem by Jerome Moore
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Folding screen
I want to stand behind a coromandel folding screen
to watch you shed and undress those clothes that hide you.
I want to see everything you hide from in its tattooed shade,
with a voyeuristic eye to your boudoir like a keyhole.
Your beauty is transpiring like a confessional,
your silhouette like a playful flame blown out by the wind!
'I want to see you change from behind that screen.
Then I want to ask you why you let yourself go so easily?
poem by Jerome Moore
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Standing Against The Streetlights
walking in skidrow frisco faces without forms,
smiles and scorns, winds and horns, breath without substance.
Some of these women young enough to be my sister all akimbo-like
It was a gauntlet getting out of there man, on the end of the line there stood one old enough to be my mother I nodded ' ma'am, and her made up face looked like slime, and flecked off her leathery skin like rust she must have been the oldest running trolly in town that night.
poem by Jerome Moore
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