Kisses in Lips


She had lips written in brail,
The one you had to kiss to know;
The type that shows me hell,
But tells me, “this is heaven”.

Mine is like the underside of a pyramid,
Wrapped in pure passion,
That only yours shall know;
The insurmountable pleasures that are a conundrum contradiction.

Colourful persuasion,
The outlines of mere infatuation,
I want your lips naked,
And in the arms of mine.

Your lips sing an aria,
Poems that now emerge from my vocal chords,
And I’m crushed from the weight,
Of the lust it emanates.

Bestow kisses in elfin proportions,
Let it settle as dew in the mountains,
That I may learn your names,
From the grooves in your lips,
And know what languages you speak.

Cement my collar bones with love bites,
So my throat fizzes with desperation,
That I now breathe through,
The crack from your smile.

Let your lips evansece in mine,
That I might taste in it,
Every follicle of your existence,
From the kisses in your lips.

– Smyekh David-West.


That Four Letter Word

Self Portrait

Spoken from the intimacy of my lips,
Hidden with the secrecy of a priests genitals,
I’m that priest; I pray your name at mass,
Beauty that only my fingertips preach about.

You’re the fallen apple that Adam devoured,
As a fruit renders mankind naked,
So do my thoughts bear all in capricious proportions,
And I take four bites from the bitten bite.

Look at me with sinful passion,
Make me bite the intimacy in my lips,
That I might pluck the juices thereof,
Quaff me; I want to swim in your insides.

I sing symphonies of synonyms,
Forgive my lack of punctuation,
For this is what my heart composes,
And musical notes have none.

I spoke a painting I wrote,
Conversations with your inner sheikh,
My name written on parchment,
That you might ponder my proposal in the life after.

Beautiful flower eyes,
Awakened by the awakening,
Concealed in the confines of one heartbeat,
As sacred as walls of a nun’s cornette.

That four letter word;
That makes me dance in the rain,
And I’m only wet from the gust,
That comes from pronouncing your name.

– Smyekh David-West.



A little boy once told me,
I had the effrontery because I was a poet, 
To write about love,
When it leaves.
As leaves fall from an ailing branch, 
That I was incapable of the savour,
His words cut deep like the sharp edge of a knife.

He was married to the sympathy from the scars,
When razor on skin births a jaunty aura,
And the sharp edge of a knife,
Is also a subtle display of fireworks,
It was as beguiling,
As the cackle from a burning briar.

A little boy once told me,
I had the nerve because I was a musician,
To sing of love,
About heartbreak, because the ailing branch now falls from the trunk,
I didn’t have the tears,
Those I poured were crowd pleasers,
And my hurt was spurious.
The knife cuts deep like words from a crusaded curse.

I was no martyr as he was,
For if truly I was hurt, I wouldn’t cry.
The calming aura that comes,
From not being scared of death.
His words shaved notes into the pages of my core.

I stared at the little boy,
For he spake like he was unhinged,
His reflection gleamed,
Emanating from the blade of the epee,
Held in a firm grip to my wrist,
For the world had taken a toll on him,
And asked of him too much.

In his eyes were raindrops,
Sweat from his minds pores,
As death beckoned to him.

– Smyekh David-West.



What is this?
This, which I feel in my veins,
The birds that circle at the front of my head,
Just below my forehead.
That I see every inch of you.

What is this?
This, which flows through my veins,
Warming my insides,
And curing the ulcer that erupts from my stomach,
As if I’ve swallowed every inch of you.

What is this?
This, that makes my veins pulse without control,
That there is a reverberation in my arteries,
And my heart constantly beats the syllables from your name,
That every word I utter contains letters from it.

What is this?
This, that makes me mad when all is calm,
That I’m at unrest and I search for where you might be,
An open chest, a beating heart, or that my thoughts now soar,
From the wings I’ve stolen from the infatuation.

What is this?
This, is that which this is,
That I’ve written this a weakling,
Barren from the smell of dead flowers,
As you’re absent from the core,
And this, this is how I peruse eternity in search of your touch.

– Smyekh David-West.