I had heard the foghorn of my loneliness;
And heard it again, as its whisper of an echo bounced off the wall behind me

I had grown so skillful,
An artist in giving small things around me mouths to speak, and eyelids to blink, languidly...
Keeping company with puzzles and rain puddles,
And giving each piece a sensible place in our misshapen realm

Trying to place the puddles,
I observed the feminine qualities of the gentle dips in the landscape,
One being their proclivity for mollifying such a tumultuous force as weather

I watched as the many depressions of the earth wept,
The looming Nimbostratus filling them wholly, the downpour continuous;
And found it fitting to think that each puddle held its place as a notable fragment in the jigsaw of a swamp that was beginning to form in my backyard.

In that moment, I suppose it was my place to be forming a thought about that swamp
And how I could compare it, in all its watery pieces, to something else in some poetic way.
Word by word,
Carefully,
So I could write it down on paper later.

To be heartless
Where I stand
And gaze so leery
At a blushing moon
Love,
Beforehand
So little did I know
Of you

I hope one day to be at rest;
Palms turned upward...

And so I am
Reminded
With each passive breath
Certain
As Deaths skinless head
Approaching

On a constant fire watch
For corpses
And their puppeteered mannerisms
Like how they eat paper
And lay upright
With their very spooky postures

Our fruit trees have grown to a corpse.
Their ghosts
Have corresponding depressions,
Beneath my sleeping head
They lay.
Aimless and dreaming,
I will be a meadow,
Which whispers your name.

Just while I sleep
Love surrounds me
Like a woman, like a let down
Barely a sound, absent of voice
Slowly my bones are crushed,
Without a noise.

Warmer than pale,
Barely
I hear old moonbeams
Dripping off my bed frame.

Your back, small and slender
As the fragile legs of a spider
Made to be adored
Too much to be touched

There is a flame on the tip of every lover's brow,
The shame they have felt
Now loads their death pistols.
Hunting peacocks and collecting blood diamonds
Greedy palms glistening with anticipatory luminosity...

Is to wake to a chorus
Of vaporous illustrations
Wing tips dipped
In the pale of her lips
Whispers the sky
To the brown haired girl
Who paints the dawn

Composed of light
Through half-closed blinds
A visual symphony
Perceived without eyes
The skin on my hands
Contours the rays
And bends her back
Gently to me

Rivers whisper awful things
Their sandpaper tongues scrape
Softly
Little bones of young

A waterbird eats his tongue
"Fearful!" screams its death
Still softer
Than a watery whisper

An owl of effortless beauty
offers vainglorious thought
And qualms between protruding ribs
Knowing its death will be a passionate movement
A contrast among still branches
Of grey trees beside her

Watching from a window,
All I hear is water.

There is a painting somewhere
Between my eyes,
Its dark affections lay beside me
Smelling of rotten fruit
And all that I know of sweet evil,
A perfume
Grossly intoxicating and murderously romantic
Like some kind of pale horse,
Filled with little men who want my blood.

I studied the shadows on my face,
Looking
As if I had just remembered
Your hardly parted lips
And glass eyes that breathe
Erasing me with ease,
Looking
As if you had just remembered
When your teeth fell out
And your skin crawled
From the softest birdsong.

It looked at me
Bearing heavy disease,
And limped away.
Like how the saddest droplet of hot wax
Crawls from a white flames strange beauty
Falling to a shadow
Where it cools, sadder still.