Writer Moe

This kiss, that story
whispered to David, under the hanging gardens –
the promise Heloise made to Abelard,
the crowning of Ines as Peter wept.
Life lost willingly, always a fleeting thing.

Time’s lash, barbed fingers drawing blood,
the groaning underneath, movement within,
this kiss, that story.
Time over time
body over body.

-Martin Burns

the map of the geography of desire,
revealing a hidden world.
traces the geographic coordinates of
love|lust –
their intersections.
the meridians pulse with energy,
sweeping across equators,

where careful choreography
becomes necessity,
the tracing of a finger
along a beloved throat,
the sound a murmuring heart,
the sudden catch
in a soft cry.

the small things –
the devotion to place,
not time.
the deeper knowing
that comes with devotion,
every inch mapped –
fixed, learned, and seemingly eternal –

the scent that lingers in their leaving.

the known and unknown,
worlds of dragons and lost ships –
this churning, human world.

-Martin Burns

This shared kiss, one body, one mouth,
exclamations and proclamations, this tumbling tumult.
This shared kiss, these shared lips. This shared breath.
Sinking into verdant land, into this Garden. This shaking Earth.

Writhing groaning gasping life.
Frenzied motion and this quickening, this eternal –
Tree of Life and the sacred fruit.
Cojoined, erupting, ripe flesh and a quaking wood.

-Martin Burns

Sometimes you stare into the void
and it avoids eye contact

So you awkwardly wave hello,
and there’s this moment
when you think it might care,
just a little

But it turns
and slowly walks away,
and you’re never really sure
if it was ever really there,
where you thought it was,
where you were that whole time

-Martin Burns

This kiss, my lips as gardener,
feeding heat along a verdant trough,
a flickering tool moving
in hidden spaces, the private gate discovered.
The flowering, once hidden garden, opening.

Blooms rising, bursting,
from rich, fertile earth,
unfurling, rising, seeking heat –
a full circle,
a frenzied birth.

-Martin Burns

You, the screaming gale,
pushing turbine blades that
rip and scratch
at the arching back of insistent winds.
The moaning on the threshold – the shaking of the doors.

You rush and swirl,
a zephyr gathering power,
sirocco full of dusty heat, rage –
your eyes a swirling whorl,
eternal and consuming.

-Martin Burns