Randy Resh (April,1967 / Toronto, Canada)

Isn't it romantic

how the chrysalids land on the ice cubes

in our drink to wink

with sunlight and time

for the dawning double blind


Isn't it romantic

how wings unborn

are worn to be torn

from our aesthetic interpretation


Isn't it romantic

that we should be so kind as to blind

as to bind each other

belieing bespeak betraying


Isn't it romantic

that we should drink such potion to spite

foreknowledge of death

innate insecurity feigning


Isn't it romantic

how the oils shift smudge to smear coupling

seething suppling searing

precious delicate contours


How I miss your words

tender as tobacco

upon mine morning, mourning throat

how I miss your voice

stillborn butterflies in the ears of compassion

unsettling clouds dim-lit dawning

drawing painting...


But how the butterflies

defy and fly

how the butterflies

in the face of formal

whims and wanton whys cry


Isn't it romantic that

we could be so superficial, civil

in lovingly lavish clasp 'lusive grasp


Isn't it romantic

that we were so resolute

in absolute

pressing persuasion

and parched for passion

that we might seek such vision of void

head-long and strong that we might belong


The chrysalids are daimon diamonds
The chrysalids are daimon diamonds

Isn't it romantic?





copyright Randy Resh 2006



Skyline Magazine,2006
Gadzooks (online) ,2009
Futureale Magazine,2010
Scythe Literary Journal,2011
Veux Magazine,2012