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Leo Kendrick Mar 6
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
Leo Kendrick Mar 3
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
Leo Kendrick Mar 2
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.

— The End —