three hours before i knew i loved you, i loved you.
i was devout moss on the lea of the stone, where the unicorns died of laughter
and the wild things slept. i was unreasonable. god knew i had no you -
now ' there you are ! '
a sprite of brisk cooling hell's beauty where the goth is real enough
you broke the spell of some other heart
and i was all ready there
when you were.

three hours before you knew you loved me, you was me.

in the dark honey, the knees of bees and afterthoughts coagulate in burnt gold and warm blood.
the air is made of dander and random. the dog barks a virus you check for fleas. and the north star -
is violent. in the blemish of symmetry, the ruling class of ravens, flock to your discord,
they adorn your wretched gorgeous. they engorge the zenith
of your curse.
javelin happy, the stab behind the eye that sees too deep is delight's dagger !
the imminent ruse of a persistent Truth and an eternal Lie.
the  Macbeth in your chicken soup.

and the Soup.

the glockenspiel of our daily raid of sewers in heaven
and our Jovian dwarves appalling the rapturous capacity of forever and ever.
the kooky jingle of our serpents, darning socks for the antichrist
and our elaborate rats. the simple maze of our condition
in the hell were at. the creaking gate to a twilight
and a lost chapter
marooned on an
island
of undead Librarians.
starving for brains
tardy with the
Harold
Robins

knife in red breast.

in the mink pith of our dismal mints and our Charlatan  hearse fights
in the twice dark vice of our daffodils
you linger effervescent  in the marmalade  plans
of mice and gin.
you march men into your womb like pixie dust and Ebola.
there, in the devious whiskers of your manticore
i have found you naked and bereft of kin.
an oodle of gimp where the soul
had been, and the gas lights off the marsh
unclean.

the vivid hork of your dead albatross, pondering the hink of your discontinued love.

dog wire fury in the rough hewn sun
and the mild disasters we come from
and the wheels of squarely nowhere,
yup.
some of our broken
English
sinking a  
King's Ransom
in the hard pan
and
polishing
the mud
of a Drought....

in the rain.

~

I don't want it anymore (my heart)


This forest of black fern, scraping thorn’d tree trunks
It all looks the same
Tearing at my flesh…ripping wounds upon my chest
Severing slowly
Pain merely a dashed figment of my stoic imagination
Sharp blades twist
Wandering for nights on end as days no longer exist
Getting nowhere fast
Frowning moss grows on the east side of sorrow
Dying north spins
As I hold in my hand this thing that still bleeds
Two parts, gaping
Seeking the perfect hiding spot in charcoal stone ash
Shadows fade desires
This is of no use to me, take it, I don’t want it anymore
It is broken
Rains soften this hell as I dig deeper into the sadness
Buried in teardrop mud
And I sit, amongst bramble and thistle spun chains
Waiting for the end….

[From Fragments,  The Following...]

... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.


... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth.  The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.


... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.


... and that's how the rain gets in.



[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]


What ?

drowning in your absolute **** me.... i'm less alive !
I dive into the waste of our Time misspent on my older youth
to squander the audacity of my bad faith in you.
how long ? Long by two and then some. held for no ransom
my handsome gifts, fetid in the breach of an angel's unsound siege
[ a little late in the day to be  ] but your love kills boys on the cusp
of manly things with a soft heart -
and twice ******. ***** fiend, no more !
more of a joke in the clog of your humid rust agenda
in this war.
my friends call you " ***** "
but you have ever been -
called  " you ".
what creation has installed
into your core, to most corrupt, distinctly more !
a bath of false in a sea
of course chores
for your Herculean
false adore.
i Love less all
the more !

now
prowling your disconnect, we fret, but you slay best
my dragons at the door.
you strive ! more alive when
this beautiful is more defiled
and your culprit ******, lapsed
in fret and guile.
you amass the serene
into pits of unsworn fealty.
you pledge the wretch
of your false
to the Truth of my Cause
and Defect.
Yes! Yes!
Yes!

and I find you wanting.

And found  
no one.

Fingerprints are like relationships
they leave a trace.
Your fingerprints are all over me
The whorls of your prints are seared into my skin
Into my soul.
I submit each time you touch me
set aflame by your caress.
Spiral patterns of you criss cross my body,
Your body.
Sparks of need jump from your fingertips
arcing into me, possessing, caressing,
they leave me breathless and defenceless
to the onslaught that will leave me inevitably,
wrecked upon our bed, like a trapped ship on the shore.

She hides her smile
behind black lipstick.
Her voice is low
and in between.
She smells of loneliness
and cigarettes.
She sings for me
when she is high.

She gets me higher
than I can go.
She takes me low
and in between.
Her heart's on fire
when she sings.
Her voice is smokey,
full of pain.

She sings of loneliness
and broken dreams.
Her dance is low
and in between.
She gets me high
and lets me down.
She kisses me
with black lipstick.

r ~ 4/29/14

If I was a mountain

That soared towards the sky,

With craggy snow caps

And stormy grey eyes-



Then you'd be the clouds

That swaddled my peak,

That silenced my thunder

When I tried to speak.



If I was the earth

The desert, in fact:

With arid dry soil

And mud, baked and cracked-



You'd be the rain

The downpour that soothed;

The balm to my bruises,

Relief to my wounds.



If I was the Moon

In the indigo night,

With stars as my blanket

And silver; my light-



Well you'd be the Sun

Just always behind

That lent me your glow

And caused me to shine.