The Poetical Musings of Kevin Harling

Tonight Beloved

Tonight, oh let your substance ascend
establishing my dreams with flesh plum
succulent to the senses,
let your kisses travel ocean distances
swallowing fresh my glances with your
eucalyptus legs.

Cover me with your persistent shape persimmon
collapsing my passion, from behind you.
Bend the night into one moon covering my eyes
with your delicate fig mouth.

O moist flower, corrode my shoulders
with galloping breath teach my fingers to read.
Weight my heart with the softest dew
and without interruption encompass this night.

Let your bosom saturate my skin like nectar
flowing like the sun's rays into unexplored valleys.
Embrace my face with lips of honeydew
pressing against the hours with loving teeth.

Extinguish my impulses and while your hands gather
impale my heart with ankles that defy gravity.
O beloved I could surrender this sweet night forever,

Kevin Harling

A Surreal Love Poem

Pawned by the absence
My hands that touch enamel
The color of my thoughts
extracted like tourmaline
Do I have the space I need
These incompatible shoals
like sheets
Our kite shaped hearts
that avalanche on sunbeams
In supple liquids
that upset everything
In this house filled by eclipses
within the measured shadows
This distance marked by throats
by asphyxiation, by paralysis
withdrawing in the dusk
In violet lagging heartbeats
that freckle time with seconds,
seconds of orange and hunger,
seconds without escorts or indexes
Summoned seconds effused by dissidence
this descending skin
your nubile murmurings, disquieting
and breath exhausted by brambles
On the threshold of submission
this trace of vapor, this venial breadth
this mourning of our arms
enveloped and escalating
like bread that suffocates the contours
the valley of your skin like mortar
your phantom forehead familiar
your undulating surfaces
This voluptuous suicide reverberates
silk stockings and snakeskin laughter
this mutilated nightfall of ivy
that pecks at infidelity with thistles
this caged tedium of copper anchors
like a resuscitated hurricane of kisses
your eyes of anthracite windows
the scent of moss that echoes of a covey
of dawns
I am not sure of myself
nor anything else anymore.

Kevin Harling