you are not the pant of promises the night dances me, you
are not the dream my day would sleep for, you are
not the dusk cloying my day into stumbles into trees and over trikes
and I am not the dawn pulling night’s ******* back down.
I
am
the ladybug
in wind upon a stem planet-lit,
earnest are my chandelierwings.
I am the Blackbird ardent on melting snow. I, the am, the
moonwhorler pouring pale blueberry sunshine I slurry
the rare earth of your core
.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
soft bells, all my soft bells
there, small bird, there
come to me
how nightingale in memory of aloneness does sing
in all its elinesses does ring
here small bird, come into me
how sun crossed by the purple lipstems
goblin flowers sway clasp
brightest horse sun
your glissando moonfilled eyes'
soft bells
there, small bird
there come to me
how nightingale in song does betroth air
and when the Winter's children spring
chorals all death's lies
giggle goblin flowers' hearts
small birds, gather me
come to me I gather your songing furies'
tender quietude's
soft bells, all my
soft bells
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers,
where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers,
where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, the pollen of eyes that bring
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
that my rages there die
it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her
that my rages there die
I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been borne in this way
donkey in the barn who dreams of gold, O wind upon his beloved's ears
where ruby thighs of folded flesh and blood of wars comes Spring
odd and beautiful flowers are sprung
braids of mud embrace the skin of those who bray on the knee of their masters
where rivers of blood the Buddha swims pink fizz and whirling bone
such tears sublime is leadgun simple clowned and winged socratic
godself poison mimicry of war's shred and burr let the hearts and minds fall droplet to ground
let the war dead drink their own rain
oval is the yawn of the sun and burly shadows weep sockets
where new flowers shall grow odd and beautiful pollen
shall spring
children dream of trapeze birds laughing grinning rising falling at last into the ground
how they learn that splendor and love is ironic ascension
odd and beautiful flowers
thunderous rivers of blood the Bluebird sings the echoes
let the Bluebird sing of death no less than the crack of birth from egg
are sprung
oddly flowers beautiful
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers,
where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, there be pollen of eyes that hear
pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
I am mighty upon the breast my true dreams press
but when she weeps at my inconsolable rages
an angel I wish would swim bursts into me naked
here is a rain from my thoughts where she walks
with her cello and my bow
Limber seas and mountain dew blood of many tenderly writhe
viscous streams the dove in heaven tells sadly in sleep bends down the brow each new soldier child
pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands trying to say goodbye
let the wardead lift up their mouths their oval grins let them drink their own rain
the plaster dreams of dreary kings
fall not round my hips and the whine of whips are far beyond the cello of lovely nights
her ******* and her thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon these fluffy newborn children we lay our heads like down upon the duck in the dusk
upon soft pillows Buddha madly drumming Jesus spinning rain
the ducklings race and the pond seeks no moon nor sun
where lovers' beloveds swim
oingo boingo holes in hands of Jesus and Buddha rivet the godsun of baby bird eyes
it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her
that my rages there die
for upon the last day that I live I shall see the true sky
upon the opened eye of the pastel lids of a new bird born dying
let me raise my veins and tendons
from my fingers shall grasp the mother birds a math of upswoop
let there be terrible storms of beauty let the donkey in barn who dreams of gold find love
a daisy sun and upon this I try forevermore to ascend when I kiss my beloved
there shall be terrible storms of beauty
I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
but there upon the mountain where a once fiery stormy river raged in dawns restless pounding
tumorous thoughts of old men whose young bodies give birth to themselves
abortion of souls by songs of flags' lie they shimmering
upon the upraised red streaked fingers of hybrid monster theories
vultures and the rats grow fat with existentialist jacking
brays ***** across their yellowed rivers
their tears are hidden to them the way simple men come with axes
when the automatic weapons run dry melting
each rising atomic thing shall escape alone and search for its brethren
each hyena must dance naked in rain the last day
on a highway no child's cry can cease
let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands
trying to say goodbye and let them lift their mouths up and drink their rain
my love's ******* and thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon our fluffy newborn child we lay our heads down upon
soft pillows
take the glowing wafting breads of autumn and winter shall lay down no more
let me drink from the socket of the tender pastel ****** of death
where the baby wren dreams long after it has fallen and risen again
where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring in odd and beautiful flowers
meadows arise with great fury my flesh and mountains and valleys cease their separation
there are many daisies and bumble bee songs in the heart of each unborn child
each young girl touches when she watches the ponies and the daffodils sway
giant head of death ambitious reminiscence
a red mud land of untold photon castles that tremble in the night
where the owlet gathers its fat body like goblets of scotch in the night
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's *******
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew
I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
where Buddha slides the eggplant curve and night falls, deep, into the ground
where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring through odd and beautiful flowers
where oingo boingo turtle eyes beam from the holes of Jesus
lay me mighty at my own feet
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's *******
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew where Buddha slides the eggplant curve
night falls deep into the ground
oddly flowers beautiful
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers,
where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a *** for her, of goblin flowers,
where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
she does not speak to me often in this way
she is the virile silence of walking truly like meadows
their time is always perfect and infinitely perfectlessness
how skies do not sing birds but are only masters of truth
but she is tender and fierce she shows me that they are innocent
when, I, confounded, aswirl with origami of things past,
she shows me a bestilled flapping silence of forgotten things
she does not speak often in this way
when her hands are like eagles tending planets
there is a secret river her eyes are filled with
these pupils of newborn seeking first sight
its graves and their strolling kisses no clock dares lie another tick
she is brightly curved; night seeks to master her sleeping motions
there is the skin of all salads I imagine I came from
when she is gone I feel rain graveyards feed to oceans
when water braided through myths and legends and lies
is truest perfect lover, but no perfect lover is so tender and fierce
she has taught me in this way how I am
if I am a perfect child, then I am a perfect man
but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with sleep"
I know why the wind is the slave of kites
and why balloons are thoughtful, secretly joyless,
but filled with bad dogs and hope
when she touches small flowers and leaves them be
I know why birds are most beautiful in flight
gracefully jetting terrifying rivers
she walking strums wild instruments into me
I wish to play like birds but only newborns are masters of truth
but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with laughter"
.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
.
a robin upon a cliffside
stranded, eyes me
her eyes are bright violins, bows raised
.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken ******* may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC