Ángelos - Poem by Chris McInnes
All of hands of tongue of talk; wanders as we walk,
hushed into whispers, etching the ether
over skylarking streets; - scratchy branches sleep
hunched – our voices tremble;
foreign languages call out of
foreign shops, signs.
My hand felt warm on the small of her back-
We stood tall, bottling laughter in ashen alleyways,
to remain ruinous to the gods of the night
to remain ruinous: as the stretch in their plight.
Carelessly we pulled stones out of the soothsayer’s feet;
and dimly placed bait for Eros
while watching youth chase the gods with flowers—
over paved roads she ran for egress:
Aphrodite longed for nicotine and mortal eyes,
children of telluric skin played ball
and laughed godlessly, abiding transient skies.
Hands burrowed with brows furrowed, partnered by ink;
companions fled into canopies canonical to the past.
Together, we pursed the silence of the gods’ cries
in awe of our skin.
Into the hills We fled
Our motion divided into sepia stills; objects
of life with knives in hand—where talk of revolution burns
down to the last thread of each cigarette, each empty bottle:
where we sat as pilgrims -armed,
upright around the fire, legless
waiting for something: lips, maybe – fresh and smiles.
Night trickled into our fingers and knees
while thoughts of why wandered across the grass
out of mind, view; lips broken by air –
paused together with open fear, closed eyes.
We watched through a glassy epiphany at the world:
drunken and merry -theosophic -
the Nature of our skin
beginning together, in the Cyprian hillside
alone; we stare at arms of what we created
then at awe of our kin
alone, beginning atop the Cyprian hillside
together; in the Nature of our skin.
Morning rose over the grasses
and our dreams burnt in sacrifice;
our voices dulled in a marriage:
All of Hands of Tongue of Talk
in awe of our Skin.
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