The dirt on my fingertips tells me I’ve been living my share of life.
Barefoot weather under forests boussom and twilight’s singing.
Passer by on agile chronicles of all perfectly ordinary everythings
slips off at the hint of fraction, contradiction, restriction.
Short and Primal-Stooped can nothing but ordinary days
be spent wandering: lessened by the shell of much disgrace.
Found no where but the ground we tread, and the blood we’ve bled.
Calling out to stones or Screaming at the air,
To find our names in the pidth of every nothing we have yet to see.
Often the clue of exactly why
we paint on the face of every
needless, ditty, grotty, blathered, ******, accursed, body ****** like a worm into the cold ground
to be eaten by time as a morsel.
Oh what a blessed blessing be it to be Mortal!

Inside the sun
while afraid of serrated edges;
he shouts at his gun,
and he speaks of wedges
to **** the kicking-bird.
Yet the sound was unheard,
Therefore ineffective was a discouraging word.

Nearby three lovers undead
for them three tears left unshed,
as the misery of apathy is laughing in bed.
The flowers must push up themselves
his time round,
but if you would dare to compare,
Ye might sleep in a flower-bed underground.
Still these crippled are crumpled
and the crackle of wheat
is a sound oft untested
beneath peasant feet.

So Apollo’s beginning has met the Apollo’s end.
And while science sends defiance
it has found us a friend,
who eats not the lilly-flower
when blood is in flight,
nor covers you sun-beings
when the time is not night.
For in each egg there is a dream that is dying,
and in all minds a clear-seeing
first birthed by the light.
So caress the face of that faceless that's crying,
so it will hold you
while being held fast
in the night.

I was walking through the Courtyard
holding children in my hand.
As I glanced upon the scenery
they fell from me like sand.
So often searched have I,
The path that I had tread;
seeking all the children
lost that I had bred.
I hope they are safe and warm,
More than that I hope they are not dead.

These children give me all I have
and their life force and mine
are much the same.
Yet ask me not to Identify all,
for sharing are they, my name.
I keep them near me as best I can
for to lose them shall cause me pain,
and I shall adopt so many new ones
and by them I shall gain.
I actually cannot see them
yet six trillion I hear I have.
They are so inclined to wandering
I might loose some with just a bath.

Gemini sheriff of happy town
kills all the frequent cow-catching waffle machines.
He rounds up all his cowboys
and retires all the shepherds in a cloud most curious.
Somewhere soon there will be a better thing to do
than reach for the cookie jar all life long.
Unfortunately there will come so many who also wear the star.
All them good folks are stuck in a stampeding herd of confusion.

The days blur betwixt again or not.
Jumping up and down across the expanse
go Jack and Jill and all their twinkling droplets
of their painful of water.

For if earth is mother, Sun and Moon are Son and Daughter.
As weeks go by without number
and the sands shift and time winds on to
Rob and plunder. All man’s devices are ripped asunder.

All remains as it has always been under the sky so old.
The masses cry in pain in the winds so cold.
Fall away from the wall.
As morals breath flies from him like a raven;
without call. No end, no death, only a perpetual mechanism
are man-kin who are spent.

Yet so seldom grateful is he for the life to him lent,
and such a fallacy is this.
Never forever is the endeavor forever together.

What is strange is the lack of reason,
that blue is my favorite season.
Sadness be my bottle, and sorrow be my fuel.
Darkness shows me where the light is living, and so
blue forever rules.
An ache of puzzling pleasure
is the thorn of dark despair.
So oddly is the sound of strained emotion music in the air.
The wall of bleak depravity is like a blanket warm and soft,
enrapturing me in melancholy and keeping me aloft.
Woe is so soon my watchword, and waning resolve my cry.
Teardrops are like candy, and moonlight my exclusive sky.
So addictive it is to weep I say,
and many would think me mad,
but still it seems depression is the best I’ve ever had.
The reason does not matter, for I shall find some cause with ease;
and the season of blue,
while its ways ensue,
will give me such a tease.

Mind numb, but really only asleep.
Blank, unperturbed, but that is impossible.
A white and blank sheet of paper is the impending rapture of peace.
We are commanded to improve the page.
Can one write on white with white?
Nay, a darker shaded mark one must leave.
For to write  a story one must have
both the black and the white;
Put in print
no need to sprint
to find what is said.

The Great writer made the world white,
and introduced a plight that allowed him to write.
And the print said to itself,
“The writer is out of sight; leaving us dark, cast and in the past.”
Til long at last all the paper shall be made anew.
In that day the page of black and white will fade to gray,
all the same will be arrayed,to start again.
Don’t ask when, just know;
That all will go from simple
to complex
to simple again.