All by her Self

Dali painted his father

I have no defense,
against the  stark flood, of morning light,
in this surrealist landscape.
 with no barrier
against the unforgiving glare.

THE JUDAS KISS

 STANDING  IN THE ARCHWAY,
STRADDLING TWO WORLDS,
 HOLDING  YOUR ARTFUL MISTAKE
 IN ONE HAND,

 AND YOUR PAN FLUTE
 IN THE OTHER..

 YOU PENETRATE
 MY SILENCE,
 PLANTING
YOUR JUDAS KISS
 ON MY CINNABAR LIPS,

LEAVING JUST A TRACE
 OF TOO SWEET ,
WINE.

THEN YOU RECLAIM
YOUR SEAT ON THE FENCE ,
TO PRACTICE
YOUR SLIGHT OF HAND TRICKS
AND STITCH
 YOUR HEART TO YOUR
SLEEVE,

IMAGINING
THAT NO ONE CAN SEE IT.

I WOULDN’T WANT YOU
 TO TURN TO STONE
WITH THAT SILLY GRIN
ON YOUR FACE
 SO I’LL COMB THE SERPENTINE
 TANGLES FROM MY HAIR,

IF YOU LET ME PAINT
MAORI  TATTOOS ON YOUR FACE
WITH BLUE
 EYELINER.

 CHARLOTTE SELF

PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION

Standing
at my easle,
sunlight sings your
name,
I kiss the canvas
with my paints,
and my brushes,
interpreting,
naso-
labial
creases
and
bone structure, Memorizing
every curve
and nuance of
your face,
tonal values and color models,
later I will insinuate you,
with my hands
in pigments.

~~This is the Alchemy of Desire~~
“Be careful what thou intensely desireth for it will surely come to thee”

*blushing*

When you lay me
 down,
In the sweet,
 brown
earth,

plant a honeysuckle vine
 atop my grave,

Where the bees can dance,
their honey
loving dance,
over my bones-

And the dancing,
 and
 the buzzing,
and
 the fragrance,
and
the sweetness,

will keep me,
 magnetized
to this earthly
heaven!

~Charlotte Self~

He shook himself
deep,
 from a long winter’s sleep
and he said,
it’s been cold all this time
in my bed ,
tossing,
      and turning,
               and twisting,
                         away from my
                                  self,

 Can you throw me a line?

Help me
        remember
    our days in the sun,
 and i
promise you,
        I’ll pay
     attention,
 this time.

 Don’t take away all
  that you’ve 
           given.

I was asleep,
all this time 
You were living,
       but now,
 i’m awake,
          and i fear

it’s too
 late,

           and too
 little.

I’ve needed
       these
dreams,
               just to feel,
 like
 a man,
and
i’ve needed
         this sand,
           that i’ve
 held
in my hand,

all this time
      just to keep,
            me from
 slipping.

I
couldn’t get to
  the heart,
    of the matter ,
 I
can’t stand
the sound of the
ripping.

He
touched her
     cheek,
 as he woke
         from his sleep,
 and the pain
           that she felt
         was like
dying.

  left
in the doorway
        a crumpled heap,
all this time,
       she’d been
        denying.

This boat
 is sinking!

         I’ll throw you
         a line,

   Her lips moved,
     but he still didn’t
         hear her.

While you
       were sleeping,
 I’ve grown
 very
tired ,
        of dancing alone
  in the mirror.

So
    we’ll
         probably
             go down
                  together.

I’ve needed  my dreams,
        just to keep me alive,
all this time,
and
   I’ve needed
reflection,

I’ve needed some one
         to look in my eyes
all this time,
        to quell this
rejection.

 If
we could get
         to the heart
         of the matter,

 you’d see,
  we’re like glass,
 if we fall ,
    then we
 s
    h
a
        t
t
  e
r,

and,
   it isn’t
the sand,
        that was held
       in
your hand,

 it was
      the object
           of your
 affection,

I’m not the
 object
         of your
affection

~~Charlotte Self~~

metamorphosis

under the cover of darkness
she’ll break her cocoon
folded wings intact,
to spread and dry in the morning sun,
she will light in a nearby tree,
to chart her flight,
and begin a journey,
that will take her miles from ,
the scene of her death and rebirth,
silken strands of instinct, will, memory, and desire,
will bring her
back, in time,
to complete her story.

CHARLOTTE SELF

Because
you are not him,
because
I died in his arms ,
 and am now,
 a ghost,

Because your eyes do not
 pierce my heart,
 because
 you fear penetration,
     you only create surface tension,
no attention,
no depth of intent,
 no tenacity,

Because you are only  stimulated
 visually,
and  my beauty is deeper
than  my skin,
 so you do not see me.

 Because i am
 stimulated  mentally,
emotionally,
and physically,
and i do not feel you .

Because,
 i refuse to fear my own desires,
or sweep them under the rug,
 to conceal them,
 for your comfort,

Because
 i intend to live,
arms wide open,
laughing loudly.

 Because i am not you,
and you are not him.
because i died
 in his arms,
 and am ready to be
reborn.

CHARLOTTE SELF

I DARE YOU!

I dare you.
to examine
 your desires.
The way i examine
 mine for you.

To enter that empty room,
 with no
 windows,
no pillow
 for your head,
and no door,
 that opens out,
to hear your own echo,
 and nothing else.

with a reflection in a mirror
 that mocks your every move.

I double and tripple dare you,
to,
 in that
hallowed space,
 open windows
 in your imagination,

to rest your head
 on clouds of wonder,

to sing to that echo,
to dance in that lone mirror,

and step out
 through the door,
 of your hearts own actions.

CHARLOTTE SELF

It was…
  …your face,
    I am not flirting.
I am an artist,
    and i love,
             beauty

I am
 amused,
        by shiney things
        and
empty shells,
    and
bits of strings,
     With bones,
 and skin,
 and
broken wings,
 you have
 enchanted me!

It was,
 your face ,
            the lines,
the
 texture,
    the story,
      in your eyes.
 
Your face
.
       I’ll
     paint
 a self portrait,
   and call it
    “YOU”

CHARLOTTE SELF

See Also: Namaste by Kenneth Rougeau²

     I feel
his  fingers,
     brush
my cheek,
    awakened,
 though
         I’m still asleep

     I startle
at these feelings,
    surpassing
space,
       and time.

How it is,
 that I can feel him,
near-ly,                                  
         close
 as  my own
        skin,
and in that
    nascent moment,                                         
I am lifted,
       wing to wind.

How it is,
       linguistic flowers,
leaving  their
 proclivities                                                     
can
in-sinew-ate,  
      and propagate
 and
     flesh,
these
      probabilities.

Trecking,
         nightly,
 through
      this field
 of  e-lucid-ated
       dreams,
 I clutch
    a heart
   shaped box ,
      of captive
    blue,
 moonbeams,

 and  his voice,
          is
 the constant music,
      in my ears.

CHARLOTTE SELF