by S.D. Parsons

Published in Issue No. 4 ~ July, 1996

Pure blue
rhumba attitude
lashed my pale,
colloquial sights
to a memory of wind.
You claimed the rain
to be your demi-god,
your eyes the souls of angels.

Standing near
notorious sin
you led the procession
of men
of memoried lovers
before me, each one
a mirrored reflection,
corpulent, doleful,
with whimsy sighs
of half-hearted regret.

She knew everything,
held Christ like a child
in her mind,
the devil in her thoughts.

those sad, mournful cries,
eloquent in their perversion,
their masticating grin
still chews at my bones
with soft, rainy teeth.

Spring-time dines
on the blood of lost loves.

Thunder echoes the last cry
of passionate good-bye.

account_box More About

S.D. Parsons spends the majority of his time traveling the world in search of the perfect cappuccino. A Zen Buddhist at heart, he feels the downfall of all Western Civilization can be traced directly to man's inability to accept his neighbor's God. He says: "We stand on the cusp of great understanding, but our ignorance blinds us, keeps us from seeing the miracles unfolding right before our eyes."