Jé Maverick » Love Poems

The Hands Of All Gods

Jé Maverick — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 12:09:36 +0000

The hands of all gods are wringing:

they have been emptied of love.

Misunderstood, it has been laid down.

We must gather it to ourselves.

We must turn to others and surrender

all love we guarded from the world.

The great worship is each for the other;

the great praise is one circle

of given,

and received.

With Small Hands I Give Great Things

Love Is My Favorite Gulag

Jé Maverick — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 18:58:22 +0000

The mapping of flaw has been completed. The shape of my name inherits the angles and contours of infamy. It can barb a tongue if uttered in certain quarters. It can be used as a flamethrower, can be a bottle filled with rags and propane and thrown against an ear. My name can glaze eyes with the longing for an intimate jihad.

These are The Days Of Wine And Crisis. I am synonymous with trauma; have become the execrable famine of morality that has seeped into the heart of humankind; I am the poster boy for all Huns. I am beyond salvation; prayer and atonement are forbidden in my name; I have become the wild accomplice of all random doom.

Love is my favorite gulag.

A Lover, Loving

Jé Maverick — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 13:27:56 +0000

To make love in the sands of Persia

is not to know the desert:

to love is to grip at smoke;

to clutch at air.

A lover, loving, knows nothing

of the history of love

or of love's future: it is to cradle

water for an insatiable thirst

in the palms: to quench

a lifetime in each instant.

Leonard Cohen - The Tower Of Song

How To Bury The Living

Jé Maverick — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 15:05:49 +0000

You will know of this.

It will furrow your brow and twist your sheets

deep into still, still nights. You may need to mumble

assurances to feel that you exist

or that you ever existed.

You may feel inclined to resort to counting

worry beads with affirmations;

to eat too much cake;

to discover the maelstrom of stupor.

You will discover how the mourner

must also be undertaker - of how memories are measured

up for suit and coffin alike -

of how you will die too. A whole self.

The nervous system that grew beneath

the countless delicacies of touch; the heart that sniffed

the wind timidly at first, that same heart

which became a citadel of light

that archived the lore and legend of an era,

the language of two.

Soon enough, oblivion will gnaw the last empty

socket, and decay will have its way with history.

Daisies will push through the wretchedness.

And In The Practice Of Love

Jé Maverick — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 12:00:46 +0000

And in the practice of love

we find that we are walking on tightropes;

and in the practice of love

we are trying to upset the balance of the other.

How much better it is

to dance together in the open field;

how much better it is

to laugh together beneath the sun.