Flurries fall to green varnish,
grass-toothed jaw. By the time
coffee is ready, their lives
have waned down to water.

You say the same thing will happen
in Dublin tomorrow: Iveagh flake
mounting the park bench,
then deleted by the ineffable air.

Pink supernovas
call monarchs to crawl;
poison milk drops from
broken green breast.
Fields flicker with rivers
of afternoon latex.
O fluent wound,
this is a poor man's Lethe.
There are better ways
to forget what happened
than the annihilating
milkweed cripples.

"If I cannot bend the will of heaven,
I shall move hell."

Meadows of blood
are sluicing from my arm,

& courts of lithium
are bottled neatly.

This stream within me,
the red subliminal, latent,

needs beating back.
The noon sun kicks uselessly.

Something happened,
it had nothing to do with me,

it had nothing to do with
quiet cancerous woe,

nothing to do with the
underside of my mind.

I am quiet in the chair,
the blood-taker smiles at me

through alcohol bouquet,
compliments a yielding vein;

the blood pours and pours,
aching with subconscious.

The sun is loathe to rise.
Beige, bored,
morning crutches
to some kind of
vertical birth.
Your rain plinth
glissandos don't
quite make it here;
I get cerulean void.
When the sun
finally coughs up
a gray beam
over the bellies
of tenements,
I've moved on,
to the seethe
of your notice.

Your bird-spine curves to the roof of my mouth, confetti-skull sticks to the back of my teeth. Your wet heart beats on my tongue, small lungs press in for sleep.

In silence, I carry you. In words, I carry you. I hear you breathe. Feel your dreams furl and unfurl, fern-like to term - and I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

In pieces, I carry you. In love, I carry you. I feel shame. Not for letting you go - for letting it in. I know what happens to children like you, with fathers like him.

some of my really long practice rambling put through a few text
manipulators. it is 95% random.
I just took out repeats and misspellings. the rest is how it was spit out of the TM.

the you with whenever
back insensateness
window benzole Benzes
superstrength
rats have ichthic because
pried be how are tide
randomised the doors
limbs perpetually adrift
until reactivating evocative
phonetic persuaders to a ok fog
all undepraved the time
gainable arrears
financial nonteachings
stuck *******
space circumfusion
to things still doom of mending content
believe broadcasters highdive
into glycosylating days
classmates trepanning to
delightless clocks
sovereign
tiramisu isn't ruinable
Other then to repopulate gigaflops

Little chips of evening
hang in air like
laundry on the line;
they bring to mind
the blue slot branch
dissolving in summer,
glimpsed from the roof,
or the way the metro
cascaded the station
in rippling silver armor,
or our little burial
under sterile spruce -
I remember you
in your dress of cherries,
your cola-tinted glasses
reflecting a gold hoof of sun
as you threw sway.
But now it's winter,
you're gone away,
the evening slithers
over battlements
& night wrenches in
with fists of crows,
the dollop of moon
clots by the back,
the heart sheds a skin.
Nothing's like it was
when you were here.