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The Works of Blue Sleighty

Poetry

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GRAFFITI by Blue Sleighty
 
Skull and crossbones
Black and heinous
Drawn with all of the skill of a six year old
You paint your graffiti in your crude and ignorant hand
Like the paid vandals of ancient Rome
Spreading harmful lies throughout the land
Galling the gullible and playing politicians
 
 
Prostituting your integrity for fool’s gold
Come out into the light of day
Show your face and back up what you say
You are playing a dangerous game
Because though your enemy lives far away
His ally is your next door neighbor
And the ally owes your enemy a favor
 

bluesageglass.gif

Tiffany Rennaisance by Sage Sweetwater
 
stunning, opalescent blue
of a Tiffany work, the light
playing upon your piece,

illuminating you from the
soul, cause and wonder
for me to sit and think,

amber prismatic streaks through 
your hair, angelic vision of art,
mystical fourth dimension,

life-size depiction of a church
window in medieval times, we
are joined by lead cames, or rods

soldered together as a vast
prayer in glass, the glorious
union of sunlight reflecting color,

your memory stays with me
on the door of the shower stall
influenced by your graceful lines

and today's wine you pour into
a crystal goblet etched with
flamingo feathers while we talk

about Louis Comfort Tiffany's
versatility and what drove him
to nature and expressing nature

in his glasswork achieving special
effects by working color and
texture and I too admire your

art nouveau style, stunning,
opalescent blue of a Tiffany work,
the light playing upon your piece,

cause and wonder
for me to sit and think
if you were cut to fit a pattern
...

Spirit of Snowy Owl on Tin Cup Pass
 
Barrow, Alaska (c.) circa 1869

threw a rope over
the rafter, hung the past,
snapped its neck, it flashed
an intimidating yellow stare
before reincarnating ugliness
into snow-white beauty,
snowy owl, quick
and fierce, knock a
grown woman to her knees
to pray, owl wisdom, she rarely
seeks shelter from howling winds,
insulated as well
as the Arctic fox, you
keep me warm, the sage,
a grown woman on her knees,
owl wisdom, praying that you lie
down with me in the cotton grass
blossoms, nesting females, a hungry
chick making wide-mouth demands -
mid-May - mid-September pussy,
fuck me before the brief Arctic summer's ending...
 
Tin Cup Pass, Colorado (c.) circa 1879
 
threw a rope over
the rafter, hung the past,
snapped its neck, it flashed
an intimidating yellow stare
before reincarnating ugliness
into snow-white beauty,
gold dust, I carried
you out in a tin cup,
Tin Cup Pass, your
precious name, knock
a grown woman to her
knees to pray, placer claim
wisdom, praying that you lie
down with me where alpine
columbine's twine around the
old ore car - I made a Cumberland
Pass, I wanted you to know I was none
of the monotony on the other side of Mirror
Lake,
knock a grown
woman to her knees,
you stared at the reflection
in the water, pussy rippled,
you were completely muffled
in stillness, you let the sun set,
your nugget ablaze, in a hallowing
phase, midnight, a full moon, a bowl
of stars, the water runs through your
Continental Divide, what life you have
tucked inside the warm, feathery folds
of your pussy lips, waning pastels,
fuck me before the boughs of the evergreens
droop to the ground, covered with snow...
I...

Copyright 2007 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Embalmed Gossip and Held Graveside Service
 
reddish-gold tinge
the foxtail grass between
your legs, the next generation
of women are not in danger of
inheriting nothing but the fleshy
legend of the two of us,
tonight, I sit in
front of the typewriter,
without it, Remington Rand,
there'll be no buckskin lesbian
curves in the future, no filled-out
doe deer for the pattern,
reddish-gold tinge
the foxtail grass between
your legs, if I had one meal
between me and starvation,
it's here I want to be, fucking
you, lesbian outlaws, they sold
me the whiskey on top of the coffin,
I laid rumor to rest in peace, embalmed
gossip and held graveside service, lesbian
preachers ordained the whole damn mess,
loaded the coffin on the train, white lightning
bootleggers left us their tumbleweed wagon,
blazed our names on the firebrand pages of
women's history, I don't choose to ride a
straight trail,
I took a sheet of carbon
paper and typed a double
copy, we are immortalized
in this ballad, I take a sip of
whiskey from my Mason and
hand it to you for the sake of
pioneer diaries, reddish-gold tinge
the foxtail grass between your legs,
the next generation of women are not
in danger of inheriting nothing but the
fleshy legend of the two of us,
souvenir hunters chip
away at the gravestone,
trying to pry out a piece
of ass gossip, that train
derailed, that coffin slid out
and put rumor to rest, pussy
spreads wide at the telegraph
office, only hitch is - no telegraph
office exists, lesbian outlaws impose
order on the wild frontier, bandit barbers
who nip the necks of gossip, bordellos,
casinos, and we donate the money to
churches,
you give me a
quarter to throw
up a tin can, shoot
me some beaver...
I...

Copyright 2007 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater 

A Beautiful Phoenician Trader and Her Dog
 
quail, its presence
heralded by its characteristic
call "wet-my-lips" has just spoken
for me! My God, I have just seen you
from a long hiatus, with your Pharaoh hound,
known from the tomb paintings in ancient Egypt,
a beautiful Phoenician trader and her dog,
I have wolf teeth for trade,
I pull them from the saddle
bag on my Percheron bred in
the Le Perche District of north
France,
for over a year, I have
wanted to climb you like the
vines of a passion flower, devour
your pulpy fruit inside the ovary, your
female gonad, fuck you in the dogbane
family of the oleander, showy cluster of
pink flowers excellently camouflaged passion,
I remember your
picture, the last time
I saw you, you were
standing on that red sandstone
ledge waving me off in ancient Petra
after paying your toll, I was off to my
next watering hole of women, in company
with my pretty camel driver of two millenia
ago, that's me in the corner, that's me in the
spotlight,
you notice me now, start swinging
your bull-roarer, whirling it rapidly
and the loud, moaning hum has me
coming, a primitive orgasm is what I
need so bad right now, these wolf teeth
are yours, I throw in a whetstone because
I know you are fascinated by ancient cutlery,
the long-tine forks, erotically speaking, I want
to skewer your guinea fowl and fuck you with
the grotesque ivory handle of the 17th century,
spit on the whetstone for you...
quail, its presence
heralded by its characteristic
call "wet-my-lips" has just spoken
for me!

Copyright 2007 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

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