Love Jungle Apocalypse III | The Art of David Wiley | Scene4 Magazine-November 2016 |

Love Jungle Apocalypse III

The Art of David Wiley

Love Jungle Apocalypse III


I awake amnestic in the puzzle.

Three full moons

cover my naked face.

Where has the day gone

the one

that took me back

to the undiscovered forest

of early touches?


Here is a mouthful of silent screams

never grown to maturity

in those chasms of emptiness.

Here is a library full of roads

ready to take us

to the hinterlands of understanding

where galaxies of sense and laughter

offer endless palettes filled with light.


You who knew me before time

when the oceans did not yet

feel their immensity,

when the warm blood of mammals

was only a vague idea

buried in the heart of a seed,

will you speak to me

now that the wars have ended

now that my hands

have colored themselves with everything

and all the fine books

have been swallowed and passed?


I’ll gather for you

a bouquet of relics

broken watches, paper crosses

and portraits

painted on the head of the bed.

I’ll sing for you

the ancient songs of luxury and languor

like a flock of hammocks

gently circling the sea

or a bed of roses

listening through the night

for the first bird of dawn.


I’ll dance with you

as the gypsies dance

ravaging the earth

with impossible meters and movements

heedless of design or purpose

dances only beautiful and true

wherein the blood boils

and the spittles and sweats

of the lakes where we floated

on the back of a swan

ferment in the heat of bridges burning.


How could I awake without a garden

to show me the way to the future,

without plants furled like torsos

anxious for the sun’s caresses?

Too many nights have passed in silence.

I prefer the sound of the river

that gurgle of a baby

leading us back to the tree in the meadow.

Too many shades of orange

have made their way to the mountains,

too many blues have sunk from sight.

Why disturb the purity of darkness?


I remember too well

the mishandling of treasure,

the daily feast

attended by a host of phantoms,

how we sometimes mistook

our battles and revelries

for the sound of a symphony,

how the earth cracked and split

and scattered our tattered flesh

and the shards

of all our carefully crafted vessels.


Now you will find me

stumbling like a newborn hippopotamus

down a boulevard somewhere

laughing at the scars on my shield,

mumbling questions about the ecstasies of dolls.

I will carry a fountain in my hand

where your tears and mine will mingle,

a red balloon on a string

will follow overhead.


And there along the invisible sidewalks

with your chorus of smiles

your incense from uncharted territories

all the gestures you learned in my absence

with the music you took

straight from strings

your eyes filled with scenes

from the histories of heroes,

there with beauties

you have etched on my eyelids

and the magic lamp you gave me

as that final gift

of pleasure and mystification

you will bring me the world

once again.

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Scene4 Magazine - David Wiley |

David Wiley, painter-poet, exhibits throughout
California and abroad. A book about his work,
The Poetry of Color, is in progress.
To inquire about David Wiley's paintings, click here.
For more of his paintings, poetry and articles, check the

©2016 David Wiley
©2016 Publication Scene4 Magazine




November 2016

Volume 17 Issue 6

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