It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.

If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all  into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.

Candle Magick
A Poem by Corset


My Latina Coworker
sat across from my desk;
heartbroken that her lover
wanted to try again with his wife;
pulled out a brown paper sack
and asked me if I believed
in hummingbird candle magick,
and then proceeded to tell me
how to cast a love spell.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I told her I believed
in the power
of mind to shape her
universe.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Two days later she's snap
chatting her married lover
again, has been unblocked
and has now switched
to candles of *******.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My dog has diarrhea
and is blowing holes
through the walls of her
crate,
I must have lit the
wrong kind or color
of candles.

© 2015 Corset

O' Helios'
Back arched in regal Blue,
bows into pillar puffed petrichor
Amethyst warred in the underbelly,
verdant memories of waning night
swore legendary red,
o're musk of organdy
blushed brightly pink
an awakening sky.

Daffodils and dandelions
lean into the chariots wind...
sans the sounds of summer's sweet,
eulogies weep over Endymion's eyes.

Cardinal night, closes his door
morning will sing a yawn
in symphony...
and into
the grey goose dawn,
fifty more daughters
are born.

The Moon

We are the waxen crescent feast of star shine
the poetic moon groom,
the romantic echo of sun
while it murmurs in swishing tide of peaceful sleep
each half of the heart drawn by the moonlit *****
strolling the Titanic proportionate
a two headed bobbing horizon lost at sea
could you dream of me in dune songs
whispering tomorrow dawning in summer sonnets
could you think of me possibly
when ever you gaze up at a waxing Moon.

Animal House

Sweeping dust
storm,
Gazelles leap.

Careening reach,
dizzy heights
Shy Giraffes
necking in
undergrowth.

Creeping tide
menageries
mystic sloths
limb and oath.

Sea mist
breaking wave
Sun prancing
Dolphins
embraceable
moonbeams.

Lizards
shedding skins.
Trine children,
Pan animals.

Golden gleaming
processions
growling purrs
Carnivores
give
Herbivores
last rites
confessions.

We are
the animal house
the  hourglass
menageries.

bleating hearts
imminent deaths,
fleeting breaths,
unimaginable
love.

Sundown in Onyx


Warning This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.

Ask if we are far along enough
now
for a close up,
when my eyes are closed
it's my heart that answers
in body movements.

So does it really matter
from whence the wind comes
who tags along with strings
and violins as long as it brings
him to me
gently.


and  gently he would come,
opens me as
soft as petals,
prying inside, branded,
as hot as a red iron
with his blushing in me.

brushing of cheeks,
in plaits of winter twine
and in my mind ,
I could not stop this soul
song from happening.


takes me into it's web of desire, and
cradles me there wet and unfolding
as a flower that
blooms in the dark dew
of June nights and gold leaves.

grasp my lower jaw and force
apart my lips, open my mouth ,
and check for teeth ,
examining the inner walls
filled with the width of the world
in subconscious whispers
slowly exploring the fit within reach.


love this body that calls for a raven
shameless and craven,
thoughts of him
black as onyx at my neck
oval as half of eternity,
there is no space
between my heart
and where this sun goes
down.

Taming of the Shrew


I would do anything for you,
trembling avowed,
summer swept
sweet lipped,
sugar dipped
surrender
I become:
a Victorian sonnet  sailing;
the river banks of Seine
when you are near,
thirsty love ,
bistro champagne
oils,
parasols and bubbling dreams,
tickle all my senses
shimmering of moonlight
kisses breathe into me
the lights of shooting fire
flowers, and my
errant tongue
is stilled.

It was harrowing,
the way the darkness
crept into her cage
the sudden change
in demeanor
no longer
a will to share,
the teeth marks
she left behind
in the calves
of leg
the loss of mind,
employment,
fragment and bones,
the very fabric
of home lay
torn and bleeding,
her red ribbon muzzle
tear stained in
separation

It was harrowing,
the madness
pulling apart
at the seam of
consciousness,
and then
she disappeared,
as if she never began,
and all that
is left of her,
are her
blackbird eyes.

Ode to a Hen
A Prose by Corset

Just yesterday I contemplated
never to pick up a pen again,
then I realized,
In a different reality
I could be a hen,
and I began imagining life
as a chicken.

A huge **** would wake me
long before the frost burned off,
climb on my back
pull out my neck feathers
make me birth a football
every **** day,
only to have cold human hands
steal it away while it's warming,
frying up my unborn child
and having it for breakfast.

Inevitably, a fox will show up
during the dead of night and
steal my clucking sisters,
but never
the **** bird that wakes me
before the sun rise; and I
having no sleep at all;
will birth another football.

now, I feel better,

don't you?

She stands in the doorway
of his mind
blocking access
casually,
he can not wait;

not for psychology
to lock itself out,
psychologically;

He wants to find things
like the tooth paste
in her mouth,
goals maybe
sensum, hope
maybe some humility,
or match books
or destiny involved,
opening gates
of engagement
seeing frames that
come up
from peoples minds
streaming from the
paranormal den
doin' it, getting
in their face.

But he didn't,
cut her off
did he?
Not the way you wanted
not the way
a garbage disposal
grinds to wake you up
in the mornings
with responsibility
every minute
A destination,
A demand...

One blink
into the next,
a continuance,
every ache
a breakable cord,
tired but tethered
to her accordion heart.

The evening sipped
Its golden bright,
as the sun spilled
it's yellow stomach
spoke in streams
of babbled havoc.
Slinging a silvery palm
along the slender hip
of wanton youth in
wishful grip.

O' to be young,
to be young
without the cares
of the infirm full,
of knar's and knot
like the desires of an
old oak tree.

To touch,
the velvet rose light
of the beauty
in her skin,
lovingly caressed
of wistful eye
and
age of bristle.

We expect our Mothers
to be kind
and it is not always so,

We expect our Fathers to be wise
how often do we err?

We expect of our families
patience and rarely we wait,

We expect our friends eternal
and lovers faithful
how we so disappoint...
the humans we love that travel
the same path slightly ahead
or behind..,

Knowledge is wise and only
compassion can free us,
only love that is true
knows the perfection of patience,
and only Experiential knows the
way of eternal  change,
and only in this way
may we become the image
of our expectant God(s).

Red gold stroking strings
of Terra-cotta tocsin,
bounced a check today
and we wonder
will she rot in her cups?
How might we drink
all these donuts...
as a finger stirs the air,
her drum roll eyes...
time became tree limbs
of propaganda.

Why.

Cloud kissed
by hills
hemmed in
by patchwork stone,
a providence in Perugia
her cobalt dreams
strum gypsy wings
where
yellow fringed faces
follow the sun,
an itinerant balloon
tints the grass fucshia
then drifts away
to kiss the sky.

Women should never
be allowed to shop
at the corner store,
where hot dogs, eggs, coffee
gas and scratch offs can be
bought all at the same time.

Inevitably, on a day she is
called to work for an hour
and a half shift, which means
it will take her twice as long
to get ready to work as it
will for her to be there.

This messes up the entire day
that she had planned for poetry
and pretending she does not need
or want a man to pump the gas and
inflate tires.

So she will go to the gas station
completely distraught that the
last 25 dollars before pay day and
her only day off till next week
will be completely ruined by
someone with a dental appointment.

That instead of eggs, hot dogs and coffee
that few dollars will be spent instead on
gas and scratch off's on the outside chance
that that last twenty five will mean she
will one day retire independent.

Hoping that there will not be any sparks
to blow her up as she spills gas all over
the station concrete, while she is furiously
scratching off the silver overlay of her
future.

Or maybe, sometimes we need a little "fuel"
occasionally. to keep us fighting, dreaming
and scratching for happiness, friendship or
for those things and people we need to
believe in.

Only if tomorrow comes
will I be with thee,
For if tomorrow never comes
our love will never be.
Unlike the changing winds
of time the memories live
entwined,
and if
the morrow never comes
your heart will still
be mine.

6:45 a.m.
The **** crows
the clouds carry a skull and crossbones
across the fretful sky.

See how he looks at her,
a bird caged in a song
longs,
before the open window.

How his heart breaks
for the sky
and it's wide set eyes,
is it the conch
that whispers
to the coast
of aching night?

Flight.

A cry assails my window
a child has a broken heart,
life is harsh and she's afraid,
mother said a harsh word
she fell down, the world
too big, too cruel
she wails,
drops her bottle,
she wails
stumps her toe,
she wails
her favorite doll ruined,
she wails,
palms bruised and scratched
she wails
and no one hesitates.

Father walks too far ahead
she teeters to stand,
her wails carried on the wind
no one picks her up,
she must learn to endure
life's obstacles,
she gains footing and
stands , bursts forward
on wobbling legs,
Father turns and smiles
waits to dust her off,
takes her hand,
and the world begins
again.

He wants his honey in lace
and combat boots.


A hip so smooth it burns like
whiskey going down,


and dreams that spell
like perfume
when he lights her cigarette
and dives into never-land.


she wants a fair fight
a fighting chance.


This is an equal opportunity
my space,
Coxbones and ashes.

All Roads lead to Salvatore
A Poem by Corset


On the way to Salvatore
I was cracked
A diamond with her head down
pops another piece of gum
makes light of the crest
makes the sign of the cross
across her window pane breast
forever more
Gooseberry products only
she swears
the scratch of her voice
a sonnet of fingernails
on chalkboard
"there are no teachers here "
says she
only nightmares of agriculture"
and the slow lonely climb,
limbs bowing to the knees.
acquiesce of leaves
holding on in vertigo
skinny dipping the night air.

Bertram tells you to ram it
his balcony tilted
like a slot machine
a glimpse of clothes drying
on a Taiwan breeze
ran into a tree
"don't be afraid"  says he
"it won't feel a thing"

You keep your voice down
still it drowns the radio
while fashion jewelry
lift their pointed legs
it's pepper on a dying mans steak
we dare to be sub-standard
people are shouting
we will do our best
to make sure promises are not kept,
to honor the test subjects
we will build a barn
threaten the faculty
with time honored contingency
and look forward to the *****
side of fact.

We shall take our time,
scoffing behind our hands
we know
if a person can not be themselves
they tend to be someone else...
suffering.,
surely there must be a way to
pin this tail on the donkey,
or at least the blunt
blonde official, when you
get a close up
you can tell how old
she is.

The trees began to bend
sussurus with sound
September was so close
I could smell her breath.
A gold medalist
twirling Oak leaves
in her hands,
gathered
in bunches and
scattered them
skyward
with a gust
of wind.

Remember me
he spins
remember me
in
September,
'neath school books
and apricot Essays,
with necklaces
strung of
purple clover.

How could the mountains
forget
the ground beneath them

or the clouds deny
the sky

we bear this mark
this Galactic conception
and yet
we become fictional

a small etch
of understanding

nonexistent sketch
in the dredge pituitary

a one
dimensional edge
we watch like
a picture
show

existentialist
and it's fiery
seed

shooting it's
burning flames into
the black womb
soon to die
or birth a moon,

the candle is the soul
it is intent
that keeps it lit,

it is our lack of
immaculate
perception
that pulls it apart

Roche's limit
yearning
to string pearls
around heavenly
bodies
as
charisma reaches
to embrace
a burning,
and I see fire.

I watched the paper
soak up the ink
as it blotched
breast strokes
across the page...
suddenly,
street bound
jazz hounds
legs,
pinioned
to pavement,
hand signals
of  July scroll by,
a memory strolls
in reverse as a
name  scrawled contra
across  wheat covered
hills...returned to me
chaotic,
lovely.

A single day
took it's light
from the crayon
colored buildings
laughter ran out
from a beautiful city
where the seagulls  
brushed it's wings
against my cheek
like lovers once
embraced
arm in arm,
long before
infancy.

A memory plucked
from the eye of
golden Roses
littering the street
in irradiant petals
like pieces
of shattered
poetry
in the blood
of a waxing
poet.

Palm Kiss,
my spooky little ***** house
at Halloween,
you are amazing.

I am aware of that...
and, and, and
I'll be thinking of you...

at the moment,
I can't.

That's a waste of time.

Our finest words
hit her bathroom sink,
I know you can't see
the afternoon right now...

not with the Hinterland gleaming
a mustard seed *****
with stems of bushy brown
all aglow where
the sun slants into
heaven's gate.

Love has a selective memory
murmuring an opuscule
melody,
when the sky slides into
droplets,
broken- beaded chain
playing in the dripping
golden pediment
blushing red feathered veins
into the autumn leaf.

I will be thinking of you...
though at the moment...
I
can't,

That's such a precious waste of time.

I've dropped this Cubica today,
as often as I've dropped my heart
when I pick up the two pieces of
a broken pen, ***** them back together,
it still works
filling my lungs with vaporous poison
knowing it will eventually **** me,
I pit it against my lips and **** on it
like a straw till it blows sunshine
out of my *ss,
just what he would call a magnifying glass,
of  perspective poetry,
inhalant on course
defying destiny.
Hopefully,
seventy playgirl virgins
will soothe
that remorse,
at the very least a sepharad
of simpatico
with silly  smoking mortals
still whispering of genius.

Impossible.
love is.
Like trying to move
a water sprinkler
without getting wet.

Thirsty blades,
like legs dancing
clouds overhead
off in the distance
a wallflower
is drifting away
with the pink
of a sailor's sunset.

Coolest of shades
waiting for cloud and clap
to rain in some courage.

It's always about the sky
skies and trains:
me and Rimbaud,
like underwear
and *****
is Bukowski;
they just seem to
go together,
seem to
understand
each other in such a way
that they really don't,
but they keep bucking
like a wild bronco
resisting the ride
that would
take them further
than the end of the
circular track.

There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.


Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.

to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.


Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.

The road to
has been long.
Worn each day
charmed upon wrist,
shiny trinkets of
silver,
jingling
forget-me-not.

The sound of smiles
were sometimes
counted upon like days
taken for granted
we should always be
lips turned up
in the darker corners.

The way sunlight strobes
through glinting trees
at 70 miles an hour
on our way home
to somewhere,
we have to be
for fresh coffee.

Never dreamed
we would ever be,
roadside
our tongues tied
words strung like
feathered frowns
of long dead Indians
battered by the way side.
Morrison-esk tears on blue
voice of a stranger's hat-
Imagine that
a cursed heart
that slays the dawn
waves angered on
stands still waiting
roadside Samaritans
will live without eyes,
laughter of friends,
stumbling worlds
will be less everything
colorful,
when you are gone.

As thoughts come on this day
in the quiet of my blind
comes a lonesome whistle
in the distance  of my mind.

Days became years,
when we walked like children
past single bomb shelter
knee tucked isles,
chests in the fiery furnace
thunder in the winter room.

We are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark today,
we will never forget and
in silence a mind wanders.

Among cheering crowds
are snapping pendants,
JFK littered sidewalks and
brown buildings on Elm street
that watch with haunting eyes.

White kid gloves carefully turn
pages at a book depository
while she reaches for bits and
pieces of his mind
A- line dresses mural *******
the anguish of morning pearls.

Stripes and Stars sing denial
the world is debutante numb
rain sounds on the sill
like woodpeckers on tin,
she cries out and over again,
all the king's courses,
all the king's gin can not put
an egg back together again.

They are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark the day,
and we shall never forget
the days became years...
when we walked with the
silence of innocence.

Daydreamer
Turn your head a notch
and we'll see that perfect
dot beside your nose.

Tell me,
even though
sanity may jettison
and stroll down
the lane as naked
as a jay bird.

you remember,
that I had on too many clothes
or not enough and neither one
at the appropriate time,
still,
I can't soften
the discard-
the tint of rose
from my cheeks or the
titan grip on my jugular.

Remind me still ,
with patience,
like every other
seven year old
wearing a zirconium,
Tiaras, pink taffeta
and soft as night ballet
slippers,
that it's o.k.
to sit on my spotted pony
dreaming,
that all princes
will have a heart of gold.

That promises mean
something
even to spectra
and daydreamers...

we stopped laughing
when
the song ended
with the world spinning

and I fell down
calling your name
on the back
street of my worst
nightmare coming true.

Remind me gently,
That best friends can't say
I love you
and still be best friends,
well, I already knew,
it just might be that
all the time my eyes
were wide open
they just
wouldn't stop listening
to the skipping thud of
my pulse.

Life's game
pretty lean
trying to hold
against the dark night
born writer,
lover, friend,
breast fed hunger
palms love
as if the last
birthing push
burst into spring
would bring the flowers
back,
last gale clinging to winter
preferring pain to
Passover
or fear of future.
What we need is the
courage of spring
and every breath
between,
a dream in labor.

Phantom Itch
A Poem by Corset




Right there...
...and... not...


I've got that itch again,
the one
that Amputees
know so well...

He always loved the color of my eyes
after tears,

you would laugh at me and still
court the silence

process the cold
without me.

Sing off key
without fear...

brave the holidays
but still remember
you were once a part of me

Phantom Limb
that was loved.

A soul ache of compassion
the severed branch
untouchable,
the occupied
empty.

Pitt
A Poem by Corset

How could anyone mistake her for a Pitt Bull?
Those soft jowls and square headed wrinkles
Sweet Mana-T,
we are the Walrus Koo Koo ka choo...

Pops with his skin on fire,
a real hair -hell-raiser

we didn't buy that white castle

no moats, no boats

no tight sunned mailman at the door
pony tailed to his ***.

what...

I'm old,
... not dead.

makes the Buddha smile
it does...

She went and got herself all
God polished, cartooned
very High and very mighty,
it's the only way to hang
incognito,
Sometimes overcome with joy,

he is writing somewhere,
like a lovers bite to the breast

black and blue

like bruising...like hickies

tickle


it makes him happy.
in return,
it makes me happy


...and weird **** just keeps
...happening...

we should talk.

No, Now I live on top of a garden,
a virtual Gnomes paradise,
the owner of this garden
is a wrinkly Lady Gaga-Gnome
centuries old
thumping up to my door at three A.M.
duct taping the bad news to the dark
of my vacuum-less door.

"You, ma'am- are breaking the rules"

She; who thinks the homeowners
association should KNOW
about my extremely "timid
hide under the bed at the
slightest movement"

This sable mini Shar pei-looking

Pitt Bull-

steel jawed Staffordshire Bull Terrier
trembling at the reflection of
her ferocious self.

Newsflash: This just in...daughter... terror stricken...out shopping for handgun.

That solid rock
on which pearly
mountains grew
seemed ageless.

Like shifting tots
on playgrounds
more than anything
thrilled to finally fill
the bitter silence
speak to me again
with church bell
hush.

Applaud with clapping
wings of butterflies, but
where have all the fireflies
gone?

Little lanterns barging in
like riots begging
the whiskey night,
like riverbanks in
Kentucky.

Better than the blue
plain cornflower hill
that thanked Heaven
for it's tender wet kiss.

It's raining,
it's raining again
sings the dawn.

Migration as a Swallow


We are one at soliped
of love and bend,
  of low and sliver
In roar of distance,
knuckle lock existence
tears of a small proud child
a woman into womb
torn to open wound
remembering his eyes
his laugh, his soft song
longing of never land
goodbyes,
to swollen hot earth
  to the dry of my eyes
birds flying young
to make a Swallow
branch here
in the old songs
of the south.

Fresh from the accouterments
of green,
creatures churn out of control
rinse and repeat
he gave me a smile
one down to his knees
the wind a born again breeze
and the moon was born
spinning silver on his tongue
while crows hum forgotten
biennial messages
a post part-em in drums
hell arrives on a River boat
demands six pence for passage
we'll pay the Ferryman
just to go home to get some sleep
but all dreams smell the same;
lost,
in this rich man's world.

The last thunderstorm ends
with a kiss,
eyes close on smiles
remembering you like this...
like some small raw
epidemic of love
planting seeds in the aftertaste
of ecstasy,
forming thoughts as mountains
make mist,
condenses the rest of this world
to shadows in the fog,
like a morning wish
of no regret.

As daylight dreams reach
for dark
under a K-light sky
so must the
world return requited,
kited,
new ,
no one knew but me and you
I will not beg of thee in XYZ
chromosomal hormonal after-tonal

A giant jelly fish ate "To Wong foo with love"
a bit of it's electric lightening flash turned
my skin to glass,
molted down Queen cream
in crock-odor-ium,
it may be a word, it may not,
it maybe your Marshland smile.

I'm going to emerge orthodontia
in crystalline wings and when I do
I hope it won't blind you
like your heart
like your heart forgot
how to pronounce my name and
sunlight forgot to wash the sand
into bleached wood
a drift
from where I cry away
from that small dark part of me
that resembles photosynthesis
in green or gold memories

..of i'll never leave you
even when my tongue has become
a pin cushion for all the things
That get stuck to it
in the dark shifting of
under garments and sleepless
every things
that crawl the endless length of me
as a nightly ritual
of sacred dance.

Realize, power
that you hold
folded as a love letter,
to be light sent
ardor
tongue tripped
along the wet
seal,
air mailed,
perfumed.

No paper cuts
to splice along
seams of soft lips.

We had only dreams
hoarded by
crazed postal workers,
who delivered
the daily diamond
incoming
outgoing
bill collectors
and
perfect posts
stamped overdue.

Mail bones litter
lost tossed ground
with the junk mail,
things we
don't want to hear.

Maybe
someone will pick
me up
thinking
"what a pretty envelope"
take me home
and use me
as love letters
to someone dear.

Fill me,
with hopeful words;
like I love you.

I would like that.

Lattice

At first glance there was such
sorrow entombed in the sun,
honey hued in mahogany
red velvet Terra eyes
the sun rose with them
a soft whisper in my mind,
my heart and soul flies
shimmering of surprise
in waves of sweetness,
it ebbs and flows ever still,
rise and fall,
ever gloaming,
moving like the gentle earth,
restless and milling
it's throngs and streams
a tender abrade
a gentle lapping
the world becomes a wonder
becomes leaf and petal
climbing,
lattice sunshine blooms
dripping in happy tears,
after the summer rain
disappears humming
drumming it's distant
rooftop tattoo.

Tomb Raider
A Poem by Corset


..."and if he's got a tomb
you should go in"
"But you can't knock..."
"on the door;
the door's wide open"

A singing budget cut.
B Movie,
cheap thrills

"I'm going to FXXK
with her"...
"you are going to die"...

..."why do you say things like that"
"you know I heard you just now"
..."Oh sorry"

"beautful"...

...Contentment.
(smirk)...

Mid-way house...

(she turns over and flips her hair
away from her neck.)

..."you said no..."

..."I was afraid"...

..."only half way there"...

..."there are circumstances"

"to over come"...

..."like this knife"

A Heart is a Horizon

Do birds stop singing unwanted songs
do we will them silent on weeping branch,
throw a stone, say they're wrong.

What of worlds that spin along
when we fall down,
just don't belong,
do we stop believing in horizons?


What of cerulean seas that cease to lap
to lonesome shores, does time elapse
inside the gap, t'ween loved and lost.


What happens to  goodbyes
should they lose all meaning
when the sun climbs to say hello
and cease to ask all questions why.


If we give up on Life ,
does it go on alone,
without us, when we stop living?
Does it laugh in the face of defeat,
embrace the night and close it's doors?

The dawn will rise without us,
the birds will sing for us,
and when we fall silent
the world will still spin,
as though we begin again,


A heart will be a horizon.

Budapest
A Poem by Corset


Eucalyptus

Push me in,

be as  tall.

No one out there
is going to sing
pro bono.

Slow down
and
look at where
it's at.

One is fast
and more dangerous

ask her...

Turns out a mixed nut in the right cup.

Clean out the closet,
polish all those pretty bones
bleach them white
as a faded memory
unlike
Budapest,
who gnaws
the edges,

but never lay down
your pen.

Three By Sea

Shall we wax as moon flower
in distant array,
swayed by first light of day
shall we retire by nightly beam
it's blue-white ray pathed
by cobblestone glistening?

Shall we skim naked as treetops
alive in the drift of whey
the woe of worlds surrendered
to the torrid heat of day
if the night is cool carressing?

Shall we blush in wistful velleity,
billowing voice as coarse drawn sail
our tragic beauty her blacken veil
should Dawn draw her curtain to
earthen edge?

Shall we pledge constant to Cresent
the lively heart of we three stars,
to grace his cheek in shivering war
all our brothers, lovers, sons?

Shall we all be inspired horizons,
a shimmering star in selenotropism
blooming wildly grateful in the dark
to spread the heavens,
to light the sea?

My Masterpiece
If I had the hands
of a Master Sculptor
I would mold the lines
of your face to my mind,
where for all time
I could visit and admire
what I behold
when I looked at you.

Should these painters fingers
find the deft
Of ability to paint in naked hues
a destiny
in twilight afterglows long denied,
I’d paint two,
one for me and you.

If I were a maestro of music
I would play
One Solitary note
that awoke a worthy world
to a breakable breathless heart,
shattered
but still collectible.

If I were an adequate poet
I would share  in pictograph
of parnassian light
your certain savoir-faire
so all could read
you as I do,
so untamed and exquisitely rare,
claimed by many
but never
will you ever...
be truly owned.

Yesterday will not hold us
Out beyond the starlit night
Under the dark dress of eclipse
We will see so many new things
Its churning maw pulls at us yet,
Licking its lovely lips
Longing for its blackbearded
Bliss
Ever and anon
Remember this
Even as we hurl ever closer
Men will be born again
Even though the years
May crawl
Beyond the memory of me or you
Earth shall be consumed
Rivers will run the sky
Eden will burn as promised
Death will be a welcome release
Time will be devoured
Houses shall quake
Ramparts will fall then float
Our eyes will not see origin nor pain
Ufology will be made of us
Grand designs will be grafted in gold
Heaven will laugh at our feet
Outrageous it will claim us all
Uteri and tears
The membrane of existential life
Abstinence of unimportant
Letchers and angels alike
Light will be dark,
The darkness shall be light
Immaterial will be substance
Material will be no more
Every thought will be as body
Placating the will of man
Apple and seed no longer
Calling in false voices
Implicitly with demand
All that we are
Nestled once again
Orphaned by humanity
In the atmosphere
With the children of our *****
Infinite and everlasting
Long forgotten the red earth
Languishing in her blue dress when
Finally, she points her taunt breast
In to the maw of the black mouth
Not even mountains will withstand
Drowning in this black abyss
Young Biota,
Ours is not of lifetimes
Under the cherry moon
Even as the clouds we know rumble
Valentine notes into the wind
Even as his harpoon tongue
Nimbly nibbles our innocent mind
Death will not hold us
Earthen molds will not
Attain us,
The word will not sway us
Heaven bound passengers
Will behold the golden galaxy
In due time of passage
Light as light will travel
Long into the black vein of
Nothing more than thoughtless
Orbs of creation
Through and beyond time
Hanging it's weary head
On the lips of love
Life defined as desire
Dripping it's ***** robe
Unashamed, it will
Sneer into the mob and
Can not be held captive
As animals in a cage
Painting the wall of caves
Time is man made
It does not exist in the
Veins of the everlasting
Eternal word...Love

She follows, she follows...
A Poem by Corset


It's Christmas again
 we try to try
and we confess to
a kind of madness

we gather
the smell of your skin
dangling like lost stars
while millions mass
entitled to our sick days

Tree top swing
eyelids sweating in white pulse
'cause you do not understand
intimacy until you have
shaved your wife in the
wilderness of cowboys
and the dust settled dawn

hoof and mane remain the same
conversation

I try to remember the sound
of your laughter,
I can only recall mine,
it is meant to be
only a few moments ago
Christmas Eve like a thirsty
rabbit went into his hole
drank him deep asleep
into the floor

our working class demons
can't look at each other
without a pick axe and
all I can think is

"I hope you got tailgate"
and she follows, and she follows
the one,
that my brothers and sisters
call "the missing" dream.

Yesterday was beautiful
in the yellow way
that the sun
tasted like lemonade.
In the way
I used to sit at the table
when I was seven and wrap
aluminum foil around bits
of cardboard fashioned into
the alphabet and strung
on a string that said
'welcome home'
like the time
you showed me
how to use lemon juice
to write invisible
love letters, and then rub
a match behind the paper
to reveal the words.
It's a wonder
we didn't catch
the house on fire.
yes,
it felt like that
yesterday,
it felt like
running through the woods
with someone after you
but that someone
isn't
scary,
that someone is
looking for you
and you
are holding your breath
while they count
to 100
still listening
to you, still singing
John Denver's
"country roads"
echoing
all around in the back
of my mind.
Yesterday was like that,
it felt free with no
rules.
Part of me hopes it feels
like that again
today,
the other part is
squeezing the lemons.

Nun Perfect

Tell me how you do that,
teach me how you go to sleep
in one city and wake up half way
across the continent with less money
in the safe than the local corner parishioner
in a 1963 black and white miracle movie.

When my mother was murdered,
I was among the “Lilies of the Field”.

I swore I would never fall in love
with a drifter who would leave and
break your heart, disappoint you,
with his Solomon meander in the only
way Sidney Poitier could ever do after
erecting a church with the strong arms
of a Acer nigrum, silently in the night.

But to the Nun(s) he was perfect
without a waving goodbye,
or long drawn out farewells...

he wasn't much for tears either.

If you are worried about the dog,
she's gone where all old good dogs go
to meet their predecessors in the
sweet soup of the creator's mind.

I was so sorry to hear, while I slept
in the back seat of an old Ion mind,
with my little piggy tail still curled
and snoring at my feet, you know,
she slept in a furnace all day,
all that heat can pack a girl up.

Home and crossing boundaries.

So every Cowboy hat ever born
under a starry sky with a cigar
dangling from his lip would hear
me whoop under the Lone star,
he's close, but none's perfect.

She's pretty **** close to broken
yarns of roads and *** holes of beautiful,
to pride's sore, red eyes.


© 2014 Corset

O' Jerusalem tree,
were we as perfect
we would have no voice,
nor raise a phantom limb
to strike at the desolate heart
of  such
wild beauty.

No, we must
cairn usage words,
like yellow gold combs
to hold your wanton hair.

So we might mark our place
among this desolate face,
to weep with grace
in this land of stone,
should there be no thirst
for veracious words
nor the sound
of human
timber.

My eyes

are the shade of awkward
the shy smile of summer silence

that billow and snap with the wind
and flap like the white of open sails

across a hopeless depth of winter sea,
the color of nautical moss

Waves pretend they love me with bold
demonstration to drive a worn wedge

between a rock and a hard place
where my eyes shone in the sway

of compass depths in coral greens,
colorless, without the caress of sun.