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Maria Morisot


Published by Moan Lisa Press


Copyright © 2015 Maria Morisot



Fountains of a purer spectrum,

and the right perspective

of the air,

inseminating our

reciprocated spores;


We walk for hours,

without a hint of

dedicating dreams;

our fires on the

inner sides -- of things.


To drink,

to ease perceptive

costs, to extract

the honesty

of saints,


And leave the lives

of honored citizens

plastered on the walls

of a defaced amalgamation

of a painted effigy of truth.



Tomboy in the attic,

closed calls in the

caterpillar creek,

I watched you

from a distance,

the distant hill,

overlooking the bulk

of the city;


And I was

brewing coffee,

baking the remainder

of an overthrown heart,

blue collar mountaineer—


Folding earth into

her endocrine assimilation,

& I watched your sister


across our stars,

into the factory of peace.

Cracks in the Floor


Kind of

how I envisioned

you. White walls,

painted and embellished

by a free-hand style~


Everywhere I look

is your unique

impression; glittering

forms washed over white

and bleak days buried

beneath a sweet ascension


Interpretation of a star-

spangled occupation;

remaining in a state

of no lost consequence,


Here, in your flat;

above a chorus

of subsequent


littering the night

with our unfettered

voice of violence.



Three drops of milk

out of your right

breast, three

beatings of

your heart;

to ease

this loneliness,


It’s just a game

to see whose love

transcends time

& space, to the

divine reiteration—


We shall concede

our sanity,


Conclude with the stitching

together of two continents’

divide; a clash in

the discontinuity

of yours & mine,


Never before have I—

dipped into a pool

like this pool,

our first kiss;

dripping wet want.

Ring Finger


The drops of truth

dripping wet

into your open wound,

and my heart’s

bland instructions:


Dismissive prayer,

salutory indecision,

a clockwork spiral;

detonating rhetoric,

a downward spiral//


Open up

your apostrophe,

catch my wandering

plague; let us finish

this revolution of

the sexes, vacuum dry

the dissonance of lust.


Laid flat back,

I come inside,

our worlds entangled by

the stench of

lovers’ mist.



Her winter’s breath descending,


bright white, hot

flares of decaying stardust;


Through hidden agendas. Scarred

flesh that is the entropy withdrawn

of our assembled

planar silences;


Apocalypse serenade,

point by point & stitch—

flooded earth,

snowed in valleys


Where we advance

so slowly in our




Images burned

like brushes of a dark age,

until her love draws

tears; bleeds the body

with broken fingernails.



Castle walls surround us,

and the honey bees

around us, marking

one more kiss

upon these wanting



An angel,





as we walk miles

down into the cellar

and the store room.


Our masks are

eroding, our

patience for


of the skin,

eroding, our


enacted upon

the heart,

where we swell.

The Cats


Brick by brick,

and old ruins

slowly crumbling in;


Metastasized cerebral

infinities, broken up

in parts too hard to


Render on a projective

screen; parts are

hardened, blue spheres

crumbled & the reason


For our kitchen scene,

seen, from the balcony

above our flat; one

word projected in

solitude, one word



Stretching out through

ivory branches, peeling

paint brushed once

in the centuries

before our first kiss.



A thin bed,

vibrations of a cascading dream,

and the world

around my waist.


A true



Bright, synthetic skies;

and her laugh,

and my moans,

harmonic inseparability.


Disaster of my fractured

uncomfortable remains,

& her

salty tears,

my continuous refrain;


A body, another body,


The two

in union,

even if

the blood



Together in Church


Polystyrene uterus

trapped in gas;

a symbolic form

of cancer for

my bleary eyes.


A pew;


An altar for her cast,

my broken love,

her last,


& in our—

in between

our breath;

our lips,

our death.



Umbilical cord outstretched

in union with a mother’s

beating heart. My own


with her lips,

her breasts,


In the lake

where children

drown, the pope’s

pool, we pool

our thoughts,


Drowning ourselves

in the water that was

the word, the world;

according to our

romantic inclinations

of a god.


Where the saints

surround us, and

our ears can hear

the tolling of

the dead.

Two Complimentary Codes


A body covered

in pink cotton

her body rests

comfortably in


The recesses of

my mind, and so


I drift,


and securely



the small constructions

of broken vinyl;


rhetorical obsession,

as the body breaks

rhythm with

the music of our love,

and causes

a disruption

in the perfection

of two lovers’



To Extract Her Breath


Fear is the sense

by which she smells;

and her soul

consumes my scent.


A vibration

in the exposition

of our sanity’s



three wound




And an extracted sense

of repercussion’s score

dripping down on the back-drop


Feeding an ostensibly

precise &



holding hands with

the driver & the



Through the eye

of the storm.


Flight or Fiction


& the deterioration

of our chemical institution,

the dissemination of

the gift of




draft and the chill

impressions surrendered

to the floor; midnight

leaves her wanting


& I


roaming the surface

of this interior of

a mind, walls

plastered with idealized

personification of a god;


Hopelessly romantic,

delivering the creation

of an overwhelming

fantasy; made reality.


Mood Sanitizers


Cough syrup,

fists &--


of Christ’s

mistaken identity;


When every church


an illusion

of my insanity,

an undeserved




My self-destructive


an influencer

kept in silence

by milligrams of

strange reactors.


First Kiss


Cascading stars,

gutted flesh;

the corporeal

atmosphere, and

a glistening,

purified innuendo


Sexual spires

caught between

a clasping sedative;

some saintly purpose

seen, from above.


And when the walls

which once were,

now bricks’ debris,

this silent monitor

of loneliness,



She can hear

their slow decay,

and I can feel

the warmth


Of a body.




Indentation imprint;

upon my loose-knit

theoretical capitulation;


And you were,

while I was,

stripping out

remainders of my

vericose fantasy,


Each twilight

abandonment is pieced

with her shooting

star, each hopeful

entry banquet



On love’s heels,

counting stars, and

counting reasons,

looking at the blackened

sky; looking for


The key to

decipher our


midnight mass.


Anchor Man


Flooded streets, the rain

won’t quit; and seven seas

keep flowing into our direction,

a full moon, vicinity of saints,

never mind

the purity of our condition.


Seizures in glass,

watching our bodies burn,

watching winter’s disposal

of an otherwise resplendent


Watching the theatre’s

harsh condition play

upon the flat white plates

of our past memories.


This isn’t where I went to,

wanted to go—

this is the retreat

into thick grey smoke


And I can’t breathe

without you.


Lovers’ Quarrel


In this friction of a sentence,

bejeweled apostrophes

and the text

of sequins & stars,

we wind ricocheting

bees breasts

through an analogy

of sequins & stars;


You march

straight at me,


and in September,

we’ll fast furiously,

denying love’s

existential phrase.


The pathways

of our neuroses;

damaging our

quilted peace,

it’s what I always

wanted you to be,

since the beginning.


Abandon #9


Error prone

pious and the



Where we were

scraping flesh

from bone,

digging deep into

the sentence of a

death row inmate;


I cut the heart

out of my cancer,


Folded death into

her drawer;

A tangent fraction

of God’s

discovered soul,





Holy divide, permuted

with the insensitivity

that faith provides.


A Drop of Her Existence


Theoretic expenditure,

past lives, half lives,

and the compressed realities

we live in. I want to


the codes of my significance…


We wash

clean our anomalies,

take tuned existence,

dress redemption

with the insignificances

of a credit card commercial,


  • * * * * * * *


It seems,

you were in Paris

without a screen

between our self,

two-entangled pair

one atomic core,


And when we kissed,

the world made sense.


The Roman Empire


In the nakedness

of our immersion

in the spa of celestial pools

we lie bound to

the history of clusters

of galactic information spools


Recording in sychronicity

a statement of angels &

-d,emonic chord progressions,


Fluttered symphonic

spurts & grasses

collapsing into

pools of scattered sands; &

-we, lie naked

skirting the foul admissions

of a god past tense


And while we take in

the harmonic

exposures we’ve been

handed down from generations,

only one gasious and

molecular reconstruction

of the stars

may pull us in.




Six persons

in a castle

full of salt,

our hour glass





You were her


raising hands

in hearts,


our altogether

nice euphoric

skirt, salted

caramel cork


We won’t warn

the flurry factor


curvature, &

in the house

of Euler’s



We watched film.


Killing on a Nightless Tract


Reticence & the tact

of godless serenities;

we cast our shadows

lightly over past

deliveries & recently

marked buddhist



Our ciccia-enhanced-

survivalist scores

permeating the suffering

currency of the prime

force behind our salient

tongs; too much March—


And April’s end bleeds

heavily into the pool

of catacombs’ embrace;


That death-defying structure

of past *& prescient;

floundering the opposition

with a wall of pale, grey scars.


It Was an Envelope of Fire


While we were




From our skin,


And the plants

bled an infusion

of mercury & iron,

spilt heavy gold

and spewed horrendous

molecules of matter

churned out by the sun,


While all of this

trans- pired;

I felt your gaze

pouring down on me

like heavy water,


Silencing a fraction

of my heart.


Honey Pot


Gesture; hand,


tributary glance,

with a centrifugal

force distributing

the deforestization

of your eye.


Plank; walk,

reminder of a coming

intolerance for

primordial blood;

making sirens sound

in the middle

of the night,


& placing the


between her

fluid psychology

of forms, functions,



You & I




Young love.




Whilst emulsifying

through the granite

core of our unconscious,

a milkweed moisture

puss, fraud, amalgamation;


Someone to tidy up

the drops of our


In hours

where we

pray to recollections,


And it hurts.

The biology stains

our centrifuge,

and catches fire


Drifters take up arms,

and colleges conclude;

while Satan’s eye

turns clockwise,

waiting for her

systematic design.




Drainage spilling rumors

of past romances, hearing

voices as they come home

in the dark of mid night;


Here in the walls

of an oven bleeding sweet


transfixed eyes are watching us

through the mirror of God’s



And a permanent fluctuation

dissolved at intervals,

reducing night to naught;

and the cavalry


they ride

their white Mustangs

through the streets of Rome,


Blowing their horns,

minimizing space &



God’s Delusion


I’m curious. About how can be

dissension, lies, enacted punishment;

fortuna, simpleze; abandonment.


And I cry watching

the unraveling waters of your birth,

strange as Heaven’s clusters

and both as insignificant

as stars.


When we were lighting up

our sanctuary, praying to some

lesser denizen of the bowels

of existential rain, my ruin…


I come calming and reordering

the ascension of a fleet of firelings.

I want to grow

the space between us,

to cultivate the boundary

and pin you under and beneath me,


Butterfly, butterfly,

butterfly, butterfly,

Butterfly, butterfly,

butterfly, butterfly,

Butterfly, butterfly,

butterfly, butterfly.


Internal Combustion


In fascination with her

other worldly eyes, her

indecision & her

intoxicating smile,


Arranged in blocks

of Canterbury Tales’

supplication; drowned

incendiaries, five past

eight… wet

dew drops plummetting

from a heartless mass

of gold,


Bring on the rebellion,

and cleanse our dreams

of angels and their opposites;

carry on this fictitious

phantasm. A likely candidate

for fire, brimstone,

and dance.


Gravity, the Pulse of Demons


A real dent

in subatomic



An ornamental

laughter rings

through the clear

blue sky this



And as the plague

unfurls her canopy,

we break silence;

mocking this insidious

infusion of sin & dirt


What hurts? -- denial

of our focal promise

to a god past tense,

to an ordinary fate,


And slow descent

into the leveler’s demise.


Twisted Hypertext Conspiracy


Hemispherical manipulations;

undressed, skirt dripping

down upon the railing to the



White history month; and I

couldn’t make her face out

between the masks and the



A simple fact of


our bodies purged

of unnecessary sleep;


You & I

in endless

loops of para-





Nod off, nod

on; irritate

the masses with

our pornographic



Stinging Nettle



bing meta-



asylum for

her works

past -



I feel







tiered wed-

ding dress,





of yesterday’s

principle of




  • ISBN: 9781310908194
  • Author: Moan Lisa
  • Published: 2016-04-12 13:35:11
  • Words: 2110
Rome Rome