you don't know that the world is  ' worlds ' . but every early morning you suspect.

we and You and I
close-talked and Time stood stock Still
as Clocks will, we lost Time... we rode upon the equine, with tight thighs clamping
the Beast of our Burden.

now pure love
can't stop
hurtin'.

it's never the net.
it's always

" the box "

we stop.
we throb lobbing red breast robins
inna box, over double rainbows.
we lost
what the nail
had no art to crucify -
and we lie -
on a tarmac of truth, our err planes depart dark waters
for black
skies !
and it's not
You Yet...
only half as
wide...

only that.

you are not kind. but your heart is clay pigeon **** and black lollipops.
but skin deep is scary ! so more shallow you go.
you can't be seen in my arms. THAT would be treason so infamous
an inferno would pray to  Our graven image
and be holy.

MY LONG TREK ON WRONG LEGS, BEG DYNAMITE FROM HUSH DUDS
DAMP CANNONS BILLOW IN THE EAST WIND, LIKE FLACCID DRAGONS
GAGGING ON IRON APPLES
I SURGE IMPOTENT IN MY WRATH, SUNBATHING BY AFTERGLOW
HEROICALLY CONTAINED.    
DISMANTLED...

I CRAFT THE WITHERING OF MY FURY
WITH A STEADY HAND; AND A JADED HEART
STARK BLIGHT, DRAINS  MY CUP OF  THUNDER, WHERE MY LIGHTNING CLOTS
WHERE SOLID DARK
HARKENS

MY YELLOW SUN HARDENS; LIKE AN UNSTRUCK COIN
BLANK IN MY POCKET

SHARDS OF DULL ACHE... UNSHARPEN

MY RED SEA
DEPARTS

MY KELP BEDS
DISMAYED.

the ghosts around your moist lips
clipping the sweet drench of our limp wish....
the spectral harlots of our far lit lamps
and the damp parlors of our damaged camps
pitched.
the pit of our peaches, fussing the cuff
of our sap. the honey bonds -
of our wayward damp
runes...  
that
we caste  to undo
any telling
of our demise, to save our precious
myth.
to keep our ruse
amused...

my darling... goodnight... though nothing is good
and we have only the night.... goodnight.

i will
trouble you no more
but labor to keep your sweet grief
mine.
to contend
with your unending medallions
of perfect regret, to pass your palm
with silver drek, the likes of which
your liking, may learn to kiss
with two lips
at dead
stop.

if this is the end
tremble and be
trembling.
our disassembling
locks
our open door
and nothing more than vanishing
remains, where our appearance
mocks the
same.

goodnight... though nothing is good, and the light is a darkness,
a trump of knives and a far thing,
up too close
to save a prayer for the plight of fools
and just too far
to pry our hands from live
grenades...

to live for.

but to die
yes.