She's Outside In the Dark, Feels like Singing (feat. Isabella Michel)

Posted by Erik Moshe on Monday, April 8, 2013 Under: Poetry

Isabella Michel (check out her website! @

Everybody knows how she dances.
Slender moves like a water brooke
she stretches out across her bed; oh great Mizuchi.
Sometimes she’s so happy
She sifts beneath the sands and rests
like a rock caught in the grooves, polished and smoothed
and twinkling from all surrounding reflections. She is many a mirror.
I heard her calling upstream but like a lazy yogi, she never came to kiss me or soothe me or to waft me down the river towards her.
The little dearie, was she afraid?
I can never forget when I saw those oceanic galaxies in her soul-soothing eyes.
Tender melodies of Hadyn trickle from her mouth and I wonder why she is just a little stream
and not my entire sea.


When I hear your voice,
your vocal chords wrap me in willing bondage
There isn’t a place I’d rather be than in that custody
Take me to the isle prison of fog and coifed euphony

I'm a Cinderella man
you summoned my carriage

You’ve honored me with the breath of bonfires
through your touch, your lymph-Notre Dame
igniting structures using mere notes
You’ve spoken a dialect that inspires eardrums
and we watch the rolling stones tumble off into
a Kurt sunset, while Martina Topley-birds
fly as free and liberated as rain clouds

I’d like to call you a damsel in duress
or maybe
candlelit duchess in the clutches
of a genie lamp within my hand
that bends and cascades like a water dragon
entering my body as a saint
exiting as a spiritual supplement

Your voice emits light
a muscle frequently
controlling the matter around it
a swansong with three wings

I think it’s a symptom of things to come
when the earth's rocket scientists are rendered
tears dripping, anointed with sweat droplets
we feel as though we’ve manifested
the light in its rawest human form
You... have shown us that light

some may sit idle
in front of screens or by the radio speaker
but I live in an opera house
the size of the world
its backstage resembles a Pangean cliffside
housing many Dionysian waterscapes

I’ve trainspotted,
I’ve traveled
through jazz archipelagos and the like
greeted the seaward saxophones
chaperoned with salamanders in silver tuxedos
coaxed sand sharks into transparent togas
with the sweet sounds traveling for Miles…
      not Davis
The symphony of a woman follows, gracefully
she sings with soul, sending us on cloud hiatus
to chakra resorts, bliss hotels, dream continents
to Orpheus’ inner circle
where shapes danced
like magical figurines in the Bombay sunset

In : Poetry 

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