madame
do me a favour
& tilt my ******
face so you can see
the ugliness
of the unborn
the locks of Kansas
are gold pissgold again
choke on my Word
yes my tiny vowels
& skin consonants
while I dream of
**** leopards
my wand is waving
can't you feel it
I have ouranous urges
and I swallowed up
your future progeny
... every life begins somewhere
and not when you emerge
necessarily, with blood
& mercure
if you haven't begun yet
you are caked in glass
in the petting Dome
madame
take that Orphic stub
and pull these scabs of hell
with your darning tongue
your cafe reprobates
seek audience
with the new sun
life , ****** boy
turns your vitriolic
violence into form
lap up the harpsichord
eat the missing letters
and run
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 1:14 AM UTC
every white man
has a black girl
inside of him
slow-writhing
Ouroboros
whiskey melody
hissing husk
the women sound like men again
strip the calculus
twelve bars / repeat
movement which
continues to buck
when the music's over
under the veneer
of urban cowardice
lies a secret path
to the black spring
mojo
�
everyone suffers
& ***** appropriately
everyone
happily pinned down
under the weight of an angel
who�s seen better days
the blues tells me
through the portals
of my sole
everything is ******
& we're all forgiven
in the oblivion
of our honesty
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
It came to be; tufts of time were grazed upon by anteaters who were the spatial creatures,
You can hear the foliage of time being nibbled away, savoured, never a meal rushed.
I sit with the leprechauns of the day's thoughts, the storm approaching, clear evidence
God is breathing. Like me, God is a thinking man - thinking in storms, never galvanising.
The television, switched off at moonfall, broadcasts an audible & contented peace,
Among kingdoms of man-made things, all have their private heroes & recalcitrant hobos.
I sit and listen to the storm like an awkward student meeting his idol under intellectual mistletoe,
On the ricepaper of my mind; inscriptions, barely inked, they all speak the language of Place.
The letters are in the correct holes, the bronze napkin ring holds the
soft blue earth,
Hundreds of people crying suddenly stop. Guilt falls like an avalanche of gulls.
Squared-off lawns giggle over the gutter's edge, through the night's muted hedgerow,
I ask an orphan for directions, he points to the wilderness with his spare foot. I follow.
My eyes are bare and my feet feel the moist cicadas and my wings become theirs,
A thousand people stop crying. They see that Life can go no faster, and love is an unused motor.
And the sparrow's claw is aware of its purpose, the wind swims between my ribs & whispers...
"I've seen it work before." Memory's from the future; spume of something greater.
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 3:59 PM UTC