Sombre heaven, you look just right in pink
Clothed and cloaked, silken limbs of ancient lore
Everything droops round the drape of your lace
My eyes stumbling lurking, running, returning

I will - I could take anything miniscule
Bare minimum, pitiful, pathetic, muggy
Bitter rain - but you refuse to yield, just like me
Is this why our touch fails so simply?
Because we're too similar for revolution?
Defeat has me nauseous, mildly in love

Sweet, sharp, a little painful, a little blue
You leave no scent when gliding by

thin. paper thin.
here is a bonus. (or is it bogus?)

the order of release.
the order of dead pages gliding in the wind.

advertisements for adopting a lonely asteroid or building fire extinguishers in your spare time.

the rain of acceptance comes with dark clouds of shipping and handling.

just check the appropriate box and send it in. send it in now!

the night is darker on your lips
my hips are dreaming while
your touch is searching for its meaning

~
In the mist of late night solitude,
                 from a mislaid plateau,
                 with a suitcase full of sparks

She observes constellations
        reflected as little needy eyes,
                        peering down at her

They could be midnight directives,
       postcards from distant nebula
                            suspended in gaffa

       "Ne t'enfuis pas..." She exhales

Still she wonders:

        will her children grow to love
          their perfect machines more
                                    than they love
                  their imperfect mother?
~

Magenta gown - flares in the stream of a August breeze.
Petals aflow in the grove
that looms on the edge of the seas.
Sweet oleander and the starshine of unease.

Nerium spawn - wade in the flames of afterlight.
Leaves aflow in the grove
where bewitching toxins invite
sweet Pythia and the citadel of night.

Still wandering upon pathways of doom
where the laurel of madness is first to bloom.

Magenta gown - stills in the dark of a dawning sun.
Stamens aflow in the grove
as the shadows of memory are overrun.
Sweet island, the sacred threads are undone.

Technological giants

We learned early

How to command our angels

To ascend higher than our sins

They offered us immortality

In exchange for our planet's wealth

And naturally

We signed on the dotted line

Like spies selling

Secrets to the enemy

But here we are now

With the well run dry...

but I fill in the blanks of thought with black panthers
they watch you closely as days lose their names and time moves in all directions
no ordinary dreams in the present continuous of flesh
but some flashes of certainty:
the colour of my tears suits you well,
distant is the moon from its own doubt

I have no purpose any more.
I’m a painter who’s gone blind
And a singer who’s gone deaf.
There is no call for what I sell.

I still daub colors on a board
To smell the Linseed Oil again
I hear the music in my head
And mouth the words in silence.

There is no surgery or cure,
What’s gone is lost forever.
And I must find a way to live
In silent darkness, if I can.
              ljm