august verlaine
slowly creeping that small way that things do
in the way of blood and gardens
the slow and yearning stretch to the grave
where the cry is tears and on top of the heat drains and
pours carefully like
tomorrow
a wash in the carefully crowded streets
the wet innocence
caustic bidding in teeth
never rotting teeth
bouncing in the aisle and down such
bravo, the day that slipped out beneath you and
august verlaine
the wind rattling like raspy leaves
me, the us here,
like blood
singing you to sleep in the cradle strapped
just sing
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
all in the glory
a skin piece
melting down the sewer eyes
****
Columbus ave.
sickly "light"? grizzly stairs up the bridge
******* on the low stoopway
forget that corner and a glinting nametag, a dancer
stay here and run! don't do it again YES
who bends over in the streets
BAM!
"I wasn't watching I'm sorry"
"Oh, no need honey"
undress me
organic hair pitted down matted in a Tesla
Nikol, Nico
the watchburn and lion's breath purple dangling "in the car again?"
****
not again"
trunkbed aroma hitting
Des Moines!
or was it blue again?
who's sound is closer to the truth and who's taking the first shower?
get naked
I reach down for the stone
I feel the soft at its edges
cigarette soaring!
Waterloo
which of you suckers ruled England last year?
the weekend slowly sleeps
in the bay's gentle red cradle
Mother
fitting quietly
an alleyway above our heads
who?
Edward
a hand raises from the striped automobile
"Hey! **** out of the road!"
Chopin, the glissando with no lost word
the shattered beer bottle of 20 years, antiquity
glow into the sink
washing onward Barton and Lombard
Barton and Lombard
both streets unacting like the other
shards of melting black pavement lying so tight and close, the lovers of suburbia
...
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
i am a couple strands of dead and dying grass in God's green lawn
what he doesn't know is the unbearable uncertainty of life and the truth-pursuit manifests itself with me and eternity
at me or God, there tends to be a hemorrhaging of ideologies running past our tongues into a civilized ballroom of platinum and pretty dresses
and i dance with a pretty girl
the chandelier, a gift from her father to the estate, hangs so slowly above us
green flashes as she closes her eyes
my suit takes my neck closely and i hear sea sparrow wings
the ballroom ceiling opens and i can see bruised sky sitting with crossed legs and cautious lips
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC