Your Flesh be Verse; And Verse such Sacred Hymn
Make less Errors to our Enduring Chant
At least in her House; Behonour the Plym,
A Shrine to Sacred Masculine's Romance
Which is why, should Family Codes must Heed
And keep Tradition on its Darling Trend
Will please the Patriarch; And out of Need
Spread your Print to Generation's End
To which I request in Respect-of-Doubt
That of your Leather please Decline to Sell
For your Light's Sake; And Innocence abound
To scrape that Dust off your Candle be Well.
Then your Babes appreciate Such in you
The Adhesive Partner; A Friend as Glue.

Ah, that your Flesh be that Smooth Leather pierce
Pricked by Needles on the Sands of Dubai
As the Blue Giant hovers; And shakes your Fears
From the White Winged Djinn hovering on high
He wants your Temple; Such Beauty obssessed
That even in his Realm his Kind turns Green
On how such Coil as you - Divine possessed -
Which to Retirements abhor the Mean
Which Font, then, must your Alphabet construct
Something which verily made to Run and Blow
So you lie down; And flash the Comfortiduct -
That same Pronged Victory we all should know.
After all, long have we Enjoyed such Bulge
Of Eight Metres spread; Less Five Inches indulge.

Upon this Night where my Feelings soaked late
I took the Charmer to mix his Best Brew
Then by his Good Stamps breathed out my Good State
And cleaned my Pages for Verses renew
Fancy how the French and Magician meet
To conjure this Milestone we call a Store
From a Savvie's Sip - to a Mystic's Beat
And blow this Spell for us to come for more
Not that Everyday's a Fair-Feathered Wand
Or Tomes which avid Legerdemains seek
But that same Old Brew - made New by his Hand
And channelled the Mist which makes it Unique.
Breathe those Spirits - to where Hip Youngsters go
I toast my Cup - to that Song playing now.

Nary a Pence or a Finger across
Shall breach your Fine Dogs to communicate
Even your Frog - with its Webbed Feet emboss
Finds it easy your Dives to replicate
That which - if analysed - makes you Mundane
Par-Level with those admit to Conceit
Yet - breathe deeper - such Act parleys to Bane
Browning our Hearts to this needed Deceit
Sighs! Either whose Mouth this Meaning depend
Be the Cockhold Male or Gorgeous Female
We all could guess - whose Tweet you will re-send,
Whose Days would Season or whose Hours go Stale.
Fancy this Talent, shall Mercy redeem
Spread your Neighbourhood; And all that it seems.

Poets, as per Priests, by Charity thrive
Yet rake the Best Features for their intent
Divers, as per Dames, by Fashion's revive
Draw the Choicest Models for their content
You see? How common their Modes do vary
Which fulfill my Teacher's Will to Connect
Where - make abode - Purple's Pimpled Folly
And slip each other's Secrets in retrospect
There is an Answer; Which one Theory hides
But through the same Dame's kiss endorse a Hint
First - pump her softly - careful! She subsides
And leave your Buds more than a Taste of Mint.
So, a Poet are you; Your Flesh the Words
A Diver am I; My *** for the Birds.

To move in Reflex, as Earth and Air kiss
Sport Water to fare that Steel Jungle cool
And stunningly Ritual; One I dare miss
Bid the Twinkle-Toes and harped like a Fool
Fools. So saturated yet most reserved
That a Semaphore my Loose Restraints such
To feature my Craft; Though Elements conserved
And leave you Two free to hone your fine lot
Figures. That Speech slumber by your instinct
Yet left me asking which Equation true
Amongst your limbs - flip Angles by distinct
Then shaped the Art and Miracle as you.
Quite expected, though not in such Degree
With her in-waiting, as I chop a Tree.

In light of last days—
Mountains breaking through the clouds,
Song in the birds' flight . . .

North winds, clouds gathering,
My mind paddles in sky river,
Like snow geese or swans.

One fence post taller—
Holds round black moons full of death,
Silent wings falling.

Cloud, moving waters,
Ripples, soft white leaf on lake—
Shape of neck spells name.

Bright stellar blue jays—
Out of autumn skies they come,
  .  .  .  Angels with blue wings.

Winters without her—
Snow on boughs of old fir tree,
  .  .  .  Weight of empty arms.