Two boys
and girls
unclothed each other
simply at a picnic
flush with wine
alongside
sun-flecked trees.

The girls,
easy as the
forest round,
burned,
delicious,
as the boys
eager and nervous
in unequal measure
partly gave up
concealing
their joys
at forgetting
or remembering
in flickers
their bare bodies.

It went on
over nettles
and half-hours
and clambered
trees and
photos taken
almost formally
(on film,
of course).

And boyish lust,
at first sinuous,
a darting tongue,
began to
soften against,
for instance,
the sheer,
unthinkable
texture
of the two
girls carved
now backward
over the bough
of a storm-felled elm.

And there
in the embers
of evening
they learned
to thrill originally
at the vast,
gorgeous
and astonishing
irrelevance
of what
might happen next.

"One is at last killed by what one loves violently."
--Guy De Maupassant

During the nights when I cannot seek the sanctity of
sleep,for it does not come over me until the
deadly light of daybreak;
I listen to the still, small voice
calling out from the cracked, crumbling and
falling
plaster firmament hanging over me--
a proverbial coffin-lid
threatening
to close in over me, nailed tightly
shut
with antique copper spikes
to keep
the good dreams
     out.

I am so often told in tones
echoing sad and
silent
in the O Holy Night,
to write
the elegy of insanity
creeping
     up
from my feet
beneath
these ***** blankets,
seeping,
working its way to my throat
where lies my stifled
cries
that engulf the labored breathing
as my tender, simple
heart
threatens to explode.

Tossing a pillow against the
peeling,
painted wall, I utter
a course *"*******"
to the weathered, unwashed window
by my head
that pounds;
needing the soothing
song-sounds of
whiskey, scotch or
lukewarm beer to revive
my
   sinking,
burning soul as
     i lay me down
     to die,
     i pray to nothing
     and embrace the lies

O, the lies...

I can scarce recall
a time of peace and
bliss,
laying lonely in your arms,
with regret I had to
kiss
your sour lips
perfumed bitter with stale smoke,
***** and other such things like
this...

...this nowhere outside goiing,
going
     gone:
The Wheel of Misfortune,
the agony of armies in
retreat,
the ****** of the mind,
the birth
of Jesus, Muhammad, Krishna
and the plastic
Elvis Presley poking up
off your dusty dull-blue dashboard
like the other man's
***** you left
for mine.

Yes,
on these and every sleepless
forever nights
     I know,
I show that
O, still, small voice
the things
we refuse to see,
and maybe after it's all over
it
will sing myself to sleep.

Silent assumptions,
have sunk more boats,
than all the guided ordinance,
ever manufactured.

I wish you were here on this park bench
Together listening to stuttering bird beaks clench
Hand in hand our feelings spawning
Together we’ll sit as the night is dawning

A smile that steals a million hearts
Stole mine from the very start
That one kiss causes me to wonder
thinking back to the night our hearts made thunder

Was it real or just a flinch
Please someone give me a pinch
Your beauty takes my breath away
Please come back and stay a day

Pull me to you and press your lips
Against my back are your finger tips
You search for luck in four leaf clovers
I now do the same as hopeless banter

Abrupt it was but now I must wait
I anxiously plan out your visiting date
Where to go and what to say
Forget me not while you’re away

Sometimes I feel poetic
when my creative juices flow
I paint pictures with my words
letting secrets of me show

I wax lyrical of noble truths
and feelings oh so deep
Reciting tragic circumstance
enough to make you weep

But there are times
when my poetic side
is all used up and spent
And its exactly that moment
that I told you to get bent

Now I know it wasn't pretty
and some say a little crude
perhaps a little harsh
maybe a little rude

But really can you blame me
what you said just made me tick
I know my *** looks big in this
you stupid little *****

Fancy seeing you here. You’re very pretty.
Beautiful, big bright eyes.
Where’ve you been hiding?

I love the way you stare back at me,
I get that a lot you know.
Do you fancy getting together?

No? What a pity. I thought we had something.
I’d best be going
then. Maybe some other time.

Fancy seeing you here. You’re very pretty.

Stand still,
And stay quiet if you will.
Upon the scene that I shall paint,
softly now tread;
Upon the roads that divide,
Are crusts of dreams ahead.

Rising to the bright moonlit skies,
Do you see your innocent lies?
Lies keep you sane, keep you sound,
That keep your kites flying
Whilst you smile on the ground?

Do you see the veiled broken hearts
Beneath the pretence and the guiles?
Their fake glee, the fake smiles?
In the silver sea of the stars,
Do you see the hope that spreads to miles?

So stand still,
And stay quiet if you will,
Behold the beauteous silver skies,
And then tread softly on the light beams;
For they are your own innocent lies,
Your own sea of stars,
Your own little dreams..

I think I love you most in Spring
When leaves grow bold and strong
Flowers budding on each branch.
Tree roots spiral and twist into the damp dirt
Earthworms slithering from sewers
Slithering
Warm wind sifting through blades of grass
Misted with dew drops.
I take my shoes off and smell the thick air
Nature tickling my feet.
Roses kissing my cheeks
The tip of my nose
Warm rain sprinkling the fur of the deer
Dashing through the streets.

I think I love you most in Fall
When leaves crinkle and flutter in the sky
Leaving splashes of color on sidewalks
And on the top of cars,
In puddles splashed by tiny feet.
Pumpkins making faces
Rolling down driveways
Rolling
Blades of grass chilled by the cool wind.
I take my shoes off and smell the misty air
Nature tickling my feet.
Roses kissing my cheeks
The tips of my ears

I think I love you most in Winter
When leaves are all but swept away
Tree branches barren and lonely
Frostbite nipping the dead grass
Snowflakes making patterns in the white sky
Dusting each bony twig and pavement
Icicles hanging from the windows
Dripping downwards
Dripping
Firewood crackling.
I take my shoes off and smell the crisp air
Nature tickling my feet.

I think I love you most in Summer
When leaves are solitary greens
Sizzling wind blowing
Ocean waves crashing on the horizon
Where the orange sun meets the sky
Bicycles littering parks and towns
Outside of shop stores
Rusty hose water spilling into streets
Spilling
Roses kissing my cheeks

I think I love you

Slithering
Rolling
Dripping
Spilling

I think I love you

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.