my hand on your hip like a golden fleece
humming jurisdiction and swaying
to the rhythm of your gate-
too proud to wallflower.
my palm-
where the heat of you
commands my grasp,
and nothing is
so keen
as the thought of our
next encounter
with a private
moment
unmoored from harbingers
of impending
isolation.
stuck to the forefront
of an absolute
ravishing.

whirling the dervish plums
of our plucky
resurrections
to stammer free of our bonds
into happier
*******.

thoroughly
in love
where out love
is In.

and no wonder.

Love is the day your doom is on pause and all gods pray
with tiny hands that nothing harms your everything, and an answer-
swiftly bugaboos the blunder of your courtship
on a righteous sea
where bountiful waves of redemption and wet kisses
cling to the mist in her eyes
like blue snow

Your Humanity
an Unmangled candelabra of astonishing affection
drenched in slow hands that caress the very fabric
of your Universe
with an uproar as glorious as calm in a storm
where a squall should be.

As you ascend into the arms of an open Heart.
Where Two should Be.

Glumping in the runkle of a midge twitch
with a slinky and a serrated rainbow jackknife-
tucked into a barley-cork for daylight
at a full stop...

at Night.

some sort of contraption;
the actual
beating heart of the moon
noteworthy for gazing
at the Fugazi
of our
work

without a star to pin
to a moon’s compass
however Noon.

Trading on our whimsical affairs, we spice the McGuffin
with a pinch of twee smirk and malicious vermouth.
we gin the rigor of our spiral descent with a debauchery
to span the bloat of our delusions
combing the banks of our foggy creek beds
for applesauce
and farthings.
leaping into the shriek
of our lull.

undaunted by the stars
at the edge
of the
worst.

as we pillage
unrefined
and

unrehearsed.

the chemicals in a sunbeam
beach the whale of my moonshine
your clutch like a happy thorn
and my demise, a misbegotten
agenda.

you corona.

switchgrass in a dead calm waste
singing authoritative psalms
to my anguish… squishing stigmata
into the plane of flat nails
summoning gargantuan plumes
of happiness, spawn of some witchcraft forgotten
like a pin in a Butterfly
fat on a *****
of hook

that reels the real
to the surface
by your bottom
lip.

the crown of our preternatural plumage
is the rake of your windswept karma.
i plunge with you
as we dive
and completely surface
when I sink

to the zenith of your Love.

Displaced
like the chewy center-
of a hard candy
in low orbit
of a toothache
of a toothless
crone.

Phantom
like an obvious mentor
from a hidden college
in stark secret
like mums the word
that sums the word
alone.

Speechless and ringing
in the ear-
we loan to Van Gogh
to hear our
troubles
Best...

and all the timpani of Hope
doing cartwheels
in displeasure domes
that span the width
of our undreamt
and coil-
like a tune in
an afterbirth
of music

Too You to
be Un-
Done.

I love you but it’s stupid.

you with your bifocal narrow Mind
and me with my Un-neglected Imagination.

we are not a pair.

but we pair well with peach schnapps
and mistletoe.
well slay beautiful gods
with parasites
and adorn the fulcrum
of our arch
with a silent
epiphany
too dormant to be
sleep as we know it
and too tranquil
to be anything
than a false start
in an actual
Now.

I Love you and it’s tragic.

tragic like how a terrapin is not
a writing desk in a moist raven
spooling thunder where the lightning
forgets to thunder

About You.

all the atoms in your paw
are hardly all the atoms.
spring sprung
when the prime mover
gave you a spot
on a dot.

a little more Here
than There,
love spooks the-
the rivets of
a solid wall between
worlds with a grace
beyond
Yes.

a little more near than far
is the sprawl of our prodigious-
escape from the burgeoning
comet of collapse.
at a snail’s pace, The Void
and all counsel
in a parlor
of exquisite
Mystery,

we are the sum of our fears
bundled in Banksy spawn
and cosmic drivel
to match the opulence
of a last glance at a
parlor trick
in real
Time.

Now that the clock has struck a sparrow
from the blue chantry of the sky
and our love lays dormant in the glare
of impossible odds-
and sundry escapades
of ill delights
masquerading as dour crumbs
from a soiled banquet
of delicious noise.
Now that the goat
on the slab
is Us,

Trolling sacrifice for a constant gardener-
howling at the broken waves
of our engineered Sea
of displaced heavens…
having chosen the doldrums of a spoiled
expanse of serene idiocy.
cackling like glowworms
in a nitrous ****
of deleted inhalation.
the wraith of my heart,
disjoined from our forever
like a pinwheel
in a dead calm.

burning.

Always.

when the snail is asleep and the periwinkles winkle in the brisk twilight of a perpetual undernoon
and the temple of a spherical calamity is a long pause, jostled into real life by your actual demise like a parenthetical parasite, clutching the void between worlds for the juice of a pirate’s
derelict fiction… spawning afternoons in a pond of after-scapes, aswoon to the purpose of too many worlds to conquer in. and too many apples forbidden… just sittin’ around, doing things that don’t-don’t matter like a vibration with the palsy of a wormhole as docile as Vulcan in a Lemon Tree with an Apple Mind.
a pantry pheasant for a brooch is the real life and the cotton you cotton is a bruised remove
at an angle for a snipe and a caustic Sunday, wrapped in levolor blinds that constantly
maraud the perpetual dilemma ever extending, and approach by storm, the Unending Things
that gather in the husk of our sunsets, like boil on a dying star!
our love squeaking through the hinges of our unattended saturnalias…
squandered by leagues of wandering, adept in purpose without form
and constantly gathered at the hearth of our quiet doom
when the snail is asleep
on the moon.

and the moon is awake
like a Moon.

a poem is an egg with a horse in it.
no ordinary bones. just a beak
and a mane event.
ghost feet
and honeybees
that gallop best
where our terrapins Jupiter
the most.

where we have
our pins for
stars
to fathom
with.

a poem is a dust up
where a downward dog
has chased a car
into a vat
of cats

and that’s who
we are.

and that’s
That.

we kept our clouds behind a uniform front. we had no medallions.
we lacked the tassels of mavericks. barn foxes all, with never-slain eyes
and just a pinch of petulant grit… fit for a moon to ponder.
or a sun to punish for the nerve of a grain-
of inviolate-soul.
we kept our stash
in a coffee can
like a canto
in a cookie.
and slept where bricks
had soft heads
rolling down delirious hills
to harsh beds
and amaranth.

we walked where then fog
was not the grey
but the space between
the almost
real.
​​​​​​​
we kept oblivions
at bay with our
gutterfly wings
boosting signals
from a torch
we could
feel.

then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.

“ then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.”

early worm complete.
with lycanthropy eyes
on your last slice
of Pi.

tossing a divot to a ripple
at high tide…

like a stealthy splash
in a Pondering.

with a moon
moustache.

and an Always wandering….