The sound of Sunday is not holy

Mauro Giuliani’s guitar
Is played

Sonata erotica
I hear it
As I bow down

My head

My right hand
And all five fingers
Supporting
Like five pillars
To this temple
Of an unwashed
Face

Attentive to giuliani’s
Sonata erotica
On a Sunday

I face a road
Sliced by sounds
Of motorcycles
Without any
Silencers

Sonata erotica
Flamenco guitar
Entering my ears
Resting on my head

My guests this
Sunday noon

Flamenco notes
Dancing
With dainty feet
Stamping on
My brain

Erotica on Sundays
Flamenco dancers
In pink

My eyes follow
The hands
And the hips
And the feet
To this surging
Dainty Desires

In a sense
Sleep is a stranger
Whose name
I have yet to
spell.

the face of prayer
is a little bit
sketchy

its eyes
closed
its nose
blocked
by so much
phlegm

i breathe
something
erroneous
to my heart

my sister
the religious
&
the piety
as usual
is angry.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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