Poetry

The Breakdown

Individual love breaks down like fruit explodes,
misting the roof of the heart, the mouth of the human mind,
like seedlings, love whispers her painful plea,
she takes a weapon in a message and delivers it to herself.

The we, the uni-love, the wonderflesh, the walking mess,
she rattles our thoughts — once my marble table broke
on the street, it was my solid for canvass and paint and ink,
it fractured and my art became invisible again,
it ran back to my mind, to the street where strangers step –

Separate love performs her duties anonymously on both
sides of the glass, my name, my pleasure is meaningless
to my neighbors in the walls, and she wares a thin, black body
of cloth on her tapered sweetened form.

I hear her stilettos on the floor above, the step talk speaking,
tapping out an inadvertent love note to the sentient and the sly,
man lusts outwards and the nocturnal moments pirouette.
the little prisms of love move safe and calculated just the way the
bloodmind knows.

Perpetual love flows off the lips of your soul to the shared eye of
time — once I lifted a child from a bed, my feet were not touching the

floor, the air beneath them was of jasmine and mint,
my arms were not my own,
our faces were made of stars –

andre feriante 4/13/2015

Excerpts from Anatomie de la Luna

Women of Picasso

I dance the world
on spinning mountain peaks
of sleep
invisible partners glide
to and from my arms falling out
into spacious ballrooms of rose
My sorrow is a cup of blue honey
and I sip the swirls of desire
laughing strong in dance
because I know nothing
Every place I spin
there forms a memory of me
billows of light engulf me
and I am driven by the music
of vibrant abandon
I dance where silence
has not yet formed
beneath the virgin coils of longing
where the wings of angels
are waiting still to move
I dance in the eyes of the dead…

Portrait

I will paint for you
a large guitar with thick black lines
I will fill it with
the fading cities of yesterday
Rome Barcelona Santa Cruz
with the ancient streets
I frequent in my sleep
I will paint the neck
as delicate
as the back of a woman
Along the strings
I will spin invisible strands of joy
and long filaments of moonlight
I will paint myself
as the arms of a tree
slowly embracing the guitar
in gradual surrender
to the heavy beauty of stars
My face will be painted
in the eyes of clouds
drifting yet paralyzed in stillness…

Untitled

I almost put ‘I love you’
in words last night
but I held my tongue
and kept it in my eyes