“orchid eye,” “requiem for smoke, for ashes,” and “leaning against the fog”

“orchid eye,” “requiem for smoke, for ashes,” and “leaning against the fog”
Photo by John Wiesenfeld on Unsplash

orchid eye

look into my orchid eye

and I'll tell you a story about psilocybin sex,

how to melt into another

with full chimera absorption.

honeycombed echo’s of deep earth

as red sandstone soil covered

buried treasure

of soft flowing unconditional red fur.

grief and earthen closure, follow the sound

of The Churning Machine of Decomposition

welcoming, one and all, into its subterranean cocoon.

an embrace we all must accept, with adventurous willingness

like stepping into an azure portal sea,

gasses swirling around bare feet in great currents,

gently sucking velvet toes with its silk waves

into the cosmic Great Unknown.

Friction, oh sweet Friction,

the core of pleasure

of lung walls swelling with rapid silver breath;





of winter woodstove warmth, igniting the spinning gears, in new loves' lubricated stomach.

Friction of cinnamon-spiked mouth

tasting raw animal flesh

blood dripping along edges of deified full lips

bowing in cult worship for another;

for another sacred bite.

of exquisitely applied pressure

squirming bountifully on oyster pearls

inside secret red bedroom dream caves of exalted Himeros.

this dance

All innately know the steps to

connecting, one and all, to Mother Earth's life-spawning orgasms

twisting our bodies for that end

firming and softening in tune with another

delivering, onto, another

an expression, expressed, with full anatomical devotion and giving over of one's body.

open yourself,

to be stung by the wasp

itched by the black fly

fall from the swaying tree

summer scraped bicycle knees.

swim with jellyfish, not fearing their tentacles.

allow the knowledge to build up

to soar above Mount Ganymede.

Be purple-hazed Experienced.

use the tricks of nature to learn more about The Melting,

and how pain can lead pleasure

and pleasure

can be the connection to the Eternal.

requiem for smoke, for ashes


moonlight plays around your features

and I feel envy at its proximity to you.

everything hardens

at the thought of being that close.

seasons pass, rebelliously I’ve reached

the sun’s fruitful energy spent

growing in your direction

longing for that, excruciatingly, divine

- first touch -

that woven entanglement

sculpted, indivisible.

with a nature assured rhythmical beat, I inched closer.

things have grown between us

space widens

and I watch

as others touch you

in ways I long to.

in ways I hate to witness.

I’ve tried to smother the softfire

but then the breeze stirs in the west

and the fire is stoked anew

when we were young

sprawling for our own space,

trying to anchor ourselves in this harsh world

your fragrance intoxicating the air

I loved you from afar.

your vibrant glow warmed winter.

I sent hidden messages for you to unlock, unravel

heated pulses covered by soft moss absorbing spilt rabbit blood,

beneath lush emerald ferns hiding decomposing tiny bird bones,

below standing water surrounding the squirrels hill of pine cone scales,

under crushed biliverdin robin eggshells,

and thin, translucent snakeskin, cast off, like last falls crispy sepia


and, bending, around feasting ants dining on curled up sleepy grubs,

you, sent signals back.

along the highways of sacred brown mushrooms,

between layers of soil horizons,

feathery-down mouse burrows,

through the tips of our ever-longing roots, into mycorrhizal messengers.

if I could only banish these heavy roots

- for one moment -

weave these anchors into boots.

but now, my love, the moon has set

blue paints the sky

yellow dips playfully around your shape

and sunlight glints off the tip of their sharpened steel

the ground vibrates as the chainsaw cord is pulled

in horror, I feel their footfalls approach you.

helpless, I stand, stoic, strong on the outside

inside, my rings churn, grating against each other in fiery friction.

a halo of empty-grey, ghostly-grief envelopes everything

knowing this will be our last love letter.

knowing, we will never wind our roots together.

~ When the world spins backwards

and Time meets her own footprints,

when stones awaken

and birds sleep,

when the oceans still, cease their constant churning

and We, lift our roots and step out of the warm buttery-red soil ~

~ When the rivers flow through the air around us

and lightning explodes out of the ground,

tornadoes twirl in place, stationary, endlessly,

the cats’ footfall breaks the ground with earthquake noise

and humans feel, and act on, the pain of another 5000 miles away, as if it was their own ~

~ blindfolded they will see each other

so no judgment can be passed

voices filter into their ears as one sound

beauty found in the words they choose to speak

instead of the accents sitting on their tongues ~

~ When our dreams dance in sunlight

our nightmares walk freely around us under bright sky

and step off this planet, into space

and humans current reality folds itself up

under warm blankets of moss, eager to grow over their stale perceptions

hiding it from view ~

~ When the masks they wear disintegrate

their hands open at their sides

facing outward

all that was, clutched tight in fists

of shame, of pride, of grief, of regret, of guilt


and they agree to join the bond that's been waiting

they stop fearing their own imaginations

for what it may reveal about their souls

and Enter,

the warm nest constructed for their tender, elastic minds

then, We shall live out of lives to the fullest extent.

I look out from towering height

the wind gently blows through Earth’s wet clouds

caressing her green velvet grass, her reddened clay skin

the river licks her erect cliffs

the mist hovers over her mountains, stimulating hard peaks

and this bodily planet shudders volcanic shivers from the pleasure.

Eden’s design

not to be h-bombed, napalmed, gassed, bulldozed

ancient forests levelled to make way for plastic fields

but for flesh, taste of meat, warm coves, lover’s blue lightning,

phototactic moths summiting the stars

Earth's orgasms shared for fertility.

She’d have shown them the hidden path to space,

the glittering gate,

the cosmic road,

but has sewn up that knowledge inside mushroom caps, peyote, Sonoran desert toads,

ayahuasca roots and vines - for only the daring ones ~

~ the ones with open doors, broken shudders, ripped curtains, torn blinds,


cracked-egg minds,

with newly born hatchling struggling through, awaiting new life,

magic and absorption,

awakening survival knowledge.

Mother Earth allowed their evolution

repaid by battering her, killing her children

of wing, of branch, of paw, of fin, of slither,

dressed in a sloppy white, greasy wife beater with bloody fist; blood-splattered shirt.

the undeserving inheritors.

they can be expelled, expedited, and Earth will shudder on with her deep boiling spasms

producing from flesh and pleasure, life, life, oh beautiful life!

of flower, of insect, of animal, of mushroom magic caps sprouting from deaths decay,

mustard bird, oaken stardust encapsulated tree, of LIFE!

the sumptuous dessert of transcendence taken off the table before the first euphoric bite

could sink,


softly, between quest-intentioned teeth,

hop scotching around space, planet to planet, moon to moon, no tethers, no ties,

yet bound to Mother, safe with Mother.

transcendent dessert replaced with garbage lined highways for your visual taste buds to crunch on,

gravelly and bitter, like rusted metallic pennies,

but swallowed down, in the name of square boxed comfort,

square fire complacency, dependency.

I am left with this last, aching plea

all my electric waves now flow forth in hopes of being soaked up into determined cerebrums

to please, let them spare you.

allow my love, my strong white pine, to continue to grow

who would shade their tired skin,

clean, their toxic air,

to stand tall,

to live.

And thank you, my love, for these meagre hundred years of longing.

our love may burn in the pit of their fires

but our ashes and smoke will drift back on the air

~ a requiem ~

to where We now stand

And there,

- there -

We shall meet again.

leaning against the fog

littered memories

dropped carelessly onto evergreen masterpiece floor, of this ~

our oceanic spaceship,

like bits of plastic amygdala-gum.

drunken, swirling, pole femmes buried in the cracks,

haunted spires

of Notre Dame, stuck in crevices of asphalt sidewalks.

hippocampus shreds

of lust-bright, curved curtains swaying in the red-light district; heavy-metal

steel toed working class hero’s of Calgary.

you'll see me out there

where the trees split their fortress strong trunks

I slide between

leaning against the fog

you'll find half of me

forgotten memories, breathing, in the trees

drifting into auburn leaves

slow cascade, sway in ode to gravity, fallen ~

to rust on moss

soaked down to the roots

streaming into lichen network

to sprout as mushroom caps

to be eaten


released, at a certain bodily depth

into screaming ancestral vortex

spinning, caved in, then ~

swallowed by a place outside linear time,

like the black crow decomposing, achingly slow, by the bus stop,

its flesh, a quarter frozen on a bed of dirty city street snow;

like the eyeless finch,

feathers stroked back handsomely, lying on a coffin

of dried, old-year grass, as if a mortician had come, embalmed sweet joyous bird,

but forgot the black eyes in his supply room.

taste again, chocolate brioche by the Seine, feet hovering over the flood, as tongue wraps erotically around sumptuous French bread.

touch electric heartache that’s fallen under shaky knees.

feel, for the first time, the warmth of slipping into another.

see anew, awe and fear inspired by quick sand on film,

see anew, wondrous airplanes displacing clouds, silver dollar pancakes, alien jellyfish,

through the bright eyes of life created inside your warm spring body;

small life, that drew a hopping frog, out of mythic muddy puddle, into marshmallow-soft hand;

small life, filled with unbridled ecstasy, to

dance in honeyed sunshower downpours,

jump monstrous Atlantic navy waves,

roll down grape-scented lupine-blanketed hills,

hear an eighteen-wheeler trucker salute,

to brush stars off your shoulder.

face again, connective fear

of newly born, bright-warm daisy palm encircling maternal index finger

instinctively grasping

while gasping

for stolen babies breathe




white flower turns blue


tiny petals fall


paternal hero lungs breathe magic for budding hazel fruit

until sirens wail,


an ocean of sacred milk spills from blooming lungs.

hear again, choir of pigeons cooing, in the Lilliputian close behind cobblestoned World’s End,

providing backup vocals for private fortnight serenade,

staged by magnificently bearded homeless tenor in Edinburgh glow.

the sound bigger than what can rationally be perceived.

smell Cork at midnight. sleeve heavenly stuck to brightly lit counter of stale beer,

as aged tweed men sing,

ornamentally, of lost sacred ground, and we of,

privateers and Canadian railroad trilogies, watching their wrinkled faces light up,

their sad, ragged voices spectacularly join

in the sharing of east coast, 2am songs.

you'll see me there

with ale in hand

singing too loudly, too intensely, “time has no beginning and the history has no bound”

where the old, split their fortress strong spirits

I slide between

leaning into the fog

you'll find half of me.

About the Author

J. M. Platts-Fanning

J. M. Platts-Fanning is a PEI Writers’ Guild 2022 Island Literary Award poetry winner, the 2022 PEI Writers’ Guild Battle Tales VII Champion, the Humans of the World 2022 Summer Poetry Challenge 2nd place winner and recipient of a 2020 short story Island Literary Award. Poetry and short story publications include, the 2023 Pownal Street Press’ anthology, Fiona: Prince Edward Island Accounts from Canada’s Biggest Storm, the Toronto Metropolitan University Department of English creative writing journal White Wall Review in 2022 and 2023, Write Launch literary magazine’s 2022 June and August editions, Artistic Warrior’s Dribbles, Drabbles and Postcards anthology, Prometheus Dreaming cultural magazine 2022, Common Ground March 2020 edition and GIFt Horse anthologies Vol 1 through 5.

Read more work by J. M. Platts-Fanning.