Dark grounds. Sharp moon.
He slips between the gates.
Welcome to St-Columba Cemetery:
Home of William Butler Yeats.

A graverobber,
scanning for the famous,
straying through the stones.
After all, shame has never homegrown.

He lumbers, he hungers
hoping to scavenge Death’s dinner.
Any sense of light getting
thinner and thinner.

At last,
our famous poet is found.
Whose steps may stomp on holy ground.
Dear Morrissey surely would be proud.

With dusk still looming,
he stands over casket defiant.
Crassly exhuming
the body of a giant.

Now, years begone.
His sun having set on many lawn.
His songs now carried to the grave
Another poet yet to be made.

A recently discovered
compensation for
strenuous labor:

mosquito bites.

Earth down
my ears
and in
my socks.
A sharp xylophonic
hum
coming from
the back,
swirling inwards
geo forming
a clot.

My God given jewish curls don’t even make
a polite appearance,
seeing how sideburns lipstick and kiss
Mein jaw -

line after bikini line
zip through view,
mercury glides
in flashes of reddish hue.

How is this still so vivid ?
When this red is of anger
and heat.

If only I could dream of the past
and scratch my ****** skin;

What a marvelous conflict it is.

Cymbals crash
Split  open
My eyes catch

the ending of
history.

It isn’t now,
it was long ago.

Everything coated
in amber.

We thought it honey;

it wasn’t sweet,
it was Eternal.

The best of Men had stared at shapes,
forming infinite levels
out of creation.

And so,
if curiosity killed the cat,
animosity had kept it alive.

Yet,
space

or lack thereof
kept us in love.

Too bad it ended.

Too good to last.

Cowboy Dan only really comes out at night.

He waits out any lame spark of light.

Always pushing down

any bright ideas like

SLOWING DOWN.


His mount hasn’t caught the sun
since 01’.

It’s a big dumb beast
and it snarls, whines and creaks

whenever it should grind to a halt.

No matter,
DAN DON’T SLOW DOWN.


Our Cowboy heads out as soon as Mother Moon comes in.
He hasn’t had a drop of his centripetal gin
yet.
YET.

In all this excitement,
he left on an empty stomach.

He turns right on an empty stomach too.
Right on towards Mount-Royal avenue.


At last, he finds the girls.

They
love him
and he loves them back.
They
all shout
into each other and
a blond one
even plays with his hat.


It’s a shame
they never stick around.

Each one going to a different home...

And so,
Cowboy Dan heads back down,

whistling his southern sounds.

I’ve seen her painting.
Splitting open
the right hand wall.
Really, my first glimpse had been sideways.
Acute and enticing,
whilst arriving
in a friend of a friend’s hall.

Quickly caught napping,
I am dragged towards the black alley porches
to a small frame
of faded blair gardens.
The brief trundle enough
through peripheral vision
to prism her form.

I did not yet dare inquire
of what I saw.
As friends of friends
bend a dangerously thin tight rope.
One where the faux pas of the acrobat
though social,
feels deadly still.

As warm words exchanged mouths,
I conjured her
as frozen sparks of delusion.
I reduced her slowly,
shimmering yet immobile;
a white snow lays a fogged *****
fielding my illusory core.

Yes, I’d seen her painting
with her brush in hand,
while arranging a portrait of her myself.
On the distant porch
she took her chair,
the jut she made,
thawed herself
and perhaps a small part of me as well.

On this medieval highway devoid of thought,

Each car a box,
Each one mocks
the other’s part
in this deeply depressing farce.

As an idiot crashes and splits open his head
The horror show halts.

An endless line of hungry mouths
coalesces and waits for motion.

Dumb.
Repetitive.
Motion.

Having experienced such a non-event
one thing became abundantly clear:

I am the only living man
with time on his side.

I say this
not in a boastful manner,
quite the opposite.

For a man that does not crave motion,
isn’t really a man at all.
And he should probably just crash his car
like the idiot up the road.

Burn-colored fingertips
lace towards the crown of your head.
Bottle-glass stained lips
draw heat from fermented breath.

Callous kisses, hands on rear
and tasteless worn out grins.
the coldest night of the year.
The cruelest you’d been.

Met hours before dawn,
in bed tired before long.
Dreams sour each passing day,
even the ones we’d never say.

Then, a remembered insecurity,
at once, frosts the room.
A lifetime of love now imaginary,
left to rot and oxidate too soon.

Twisted mouths begin lying,
for our pale Washington eyes.
The Doppler effect on another kind of siren.
A Swartzchild radius exactly my size.

The lovers quarrel, entangle shoelace.
Vibrating atomic clocks keep time of the chase.
Two shots fire simultaneously,
only one lands with grace.