Occurrence on Bloor

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 Occurrence on Bloor

Occurrence on Bloor

Kiss erotic kiss
of darkness
where lips and Eros
meet
In the milk mist
of evergreen
evening
where ladies walk
with arched eyebrow
and people talk
and mouth the words
of secret revelations
as Sirens sound
to emergencies so loud
that they leave an ox
blood red glow
In the misted evening .
R5 AND triple 3’s on Huntley
as smoke seeps
into moisture
and yellow figures
light the darkness
of the grey
and shining streets .
The hooded lick their lips
as death comes calling
in the 3’s
of uncle, aunt,
and stranger.

All the Muses have Left

All the Muses have Left

All the muses have left
me .
They’ve been
gone for a while ,
perhaps even longer .
Don’t know where they go,
when they suddenly travel .
It’s just their style .
to suddenly leave .
Are they
in The south of France
or gone en vacances
to Kuwai, or Hawaii ?
Maybe they’re at
work in some
street city ghetto
or have travelled to China
or even Dubai  ?
All I know is
they’ve left me
as cold  as a fish
without even as much
as a parting goodbye .
They do  that  sometimes.
They know
that I don’t take offense ,
that I wouldn’t mark
a single line
till they’re back
in my corner
drilling
circling
In defense
of the word or
of any line
that they drop
on my heart
or slip into soul  .
This is just a note
: Wishing you were
here.

Bushman’s Hallelujah

Bushman’s Hallelujah

The percussive beat

rolls on,

non stop in the night,

a quick pitter patting

of an excited heart,

a bushman’s hallelujah

The percussive beat

rolls on,

non stop in the night,

a quick pitter patting

of an excited heart,

a bushman’s hallelujah .

The beat slowed down

like water drops

running out

that dropped

progressively slower

to faint

and quiet beats,

that fade.

Dead silence

In the night

replaced them.

Planes landed .

Lights in windows

turned on ,

and silently

life continued

in them .

From “Ruminations Of The Dead” by PWChaltas

Worship at The Temple

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Worship at The Temple

Worship at The Temple

At the corner of Boissy D’ Anglais,
and Faubourg Saint Honere,
the faithful come to worship
at the Temple of Hermes .
Devoted in their worship
of leather silk and brand ,
the pilgrims journey to worship
to be cured and healed
from all manners of disease
and from the bourgeois
well heeled malaise .
They come with votive
offerings for their token
brightly coloured
squares of temple cloth.

And the priestesses
circulate upright
and solemn
with smiles
in simple black
clean lined temple garb
with black hair
and Egyptian eyes.

And the High priests too
have orange Potiron ties
elegantly placed
with poise
and clean lines .

At the altars ,
with relics finely made ,
the devoted hunch over
and pray silently,
lovingly to the god
of Couture
and Design .

And there are sacred places
at the tops of stairs
where only
the utmost devoted
can enter
and commune
with rooms of precious
religious artifacts
and jewels,
which can be theirs
with payment
of massive
votive offerings
and fines.

And the faithful circulate
up and down
the temple stairs,
sometimes
in familial groups ,
sometimes
in pairs,
but the truly
most devoted
go there all alone,
to clearly divine
what they must own,
and to determine
the will
that the Gods of fashion
that reside
at the temple of Hermes
have for themselves
and for their own .

From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas