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Danny Beatty Jan 2014
you are not the pant of promises the night dances me, you
are not the dream my day would sleep for, you are
not the dusk cloying my day into stumbles into trees and over trikes
and I am not the dawn pulling night’s ******* back down.

     I
am
  the ladybug
              in wind upon a stem planet-lit,
      earnest are my chandelierwings.
I am the Blackbird ardent on melting snow. I, the am, the              

             moonwhorler pouring pale blueberry sunshine I slurry
          the rare earth of your core




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Dec 2013 · 625
be my goblin flower
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
soft bells, all my  soft bells

there, small bird, there
come to me

how nightingale in memory of aloneness does sing
in all its elinesses does ring

here small bird, come into me
how sun crossed by the purple lipstems
goblin flowers sway clasp
                                   brightest horse sun
            your glissando moonfilled eyes'
    soft bells
                          there, small bird
                there come to me
           how nightingale in song does betroth air
                   and when the Winter's children spring    
                                   chorals all death's lies
                                    giggle goblin flowers' hearts
        
                  small birds, gather me
                  come to me I gather your songing furies'
         tender quietude's
                                               soft bells, all my
                                          soft bells
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.

     may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
     may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, the pollen of eyes that bring
Dec 2013 · 8.6k
a simple man
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
that my rages there die

it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been borne in this way

donkey in the barn who dreams of gold,  O wind upon his beloved's ears
where ruby thighs of folded flesh and blood of wars comes Spring

odd and beautiful flowers are sprung

braids of mud embrace the skin of those who bray on the knee of their masters
where rivers of blood the Buddha swims pink fizz and whirling bone
such tears sublime is leadgun simple clowned and winged socratic
godself poison mimicry of war's shred and burr let the hearts and minds fall droplet to ground
let the war dead drink their own rain
oval is the yawn of the sun and burly shadows weep sockets
where new flowers shall grow odd and beautiful pollen 
shall spring

children dream of trapeze birds laughing grinning rising falling at last into the ground 
how they learn that splendor and love is  ironic ascension 

odd and beautiful flowers 
thunderous rivers of blood the Bluebird sings the echoes
let the Bluebird sing of death no less than the crack of birth from egg
are sprung
oddly flowers beautiful
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
     may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
     may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, there be pollen of eyes that hear
 
pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
I am mighty upon the breast my true dreams press
but when she weeps at my inconsolable rages
an angel I wish would swim bursts into me naked 
here is a rain from my thoughts where she walks 
with her cello and my bow
Limber seas and mountain dew blood of many tenderly writhe
viscous streams the dove in heaven tells sadly in sleep bends down the  brow each new soldier child 

pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands trying to say goodbye 
let the wardead lift up their mouths their oval grins let them drink their own rain

the plaster dreams of dreary kings 
fall not round my hips and the whine of whips are far beyond the cello of lovely nights
her ******* and her thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon these fluffy newborn children we lay our heads like down upon the duck in the dusk
upon soft pillows Buddha madly drumming Jesus spinning rain
the ducklings race and the pond seeks no moon nor sun
where lovers' beloveds swim

oingo boingo holes in hands of Jesus and Buddha rivet the godsun of baby bird eyes 
it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

for upon the last day that I live I shall see the true sky
upon the opened eye of the pastel lids of a new bird born dying

let me raise my veins and tendons 
from my fingers shall grasp the mother birds a math of upswoop 
let there be terrible storms of beauty let the donkey in barn who dreams of gold find love
a daisy sun and upon this I try forevermore to ascend when I kiss my beloved
there shall be terrible storms of beauty 

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
but there upon the mountain where a once fiery stormy river raged in dawns restless pounding
tumorous thoughts of old men whose young bodies give birth to themselves
abortion of souls by songs of flags' lie they shimmering
upon the upraised red streaked fingers of hybrid monster theories
vultures and the rats grow fat with existentialist jacking
brays ***** across their yellowed rivers  

their tears are hidden to them the way simple men come with axes
when the automatic weapons run dry melting
each rising atomic thing shall escape alone and search for its brethren
each hyena must dance naked in rain the last day
on a highway no child's cry can cease

let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands
trying to say goodbye and let them lift their mouths up and drink their rain
my love's ******* and thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon our fluffy newborn child we lay our heads down upon
soft pillows 

take the glowing wafting breads of autumn and winter shall lay down no more
let me drink from the socket of the tender pastel ****** of death
where the baby wren dreams long after it has fallen and risen again 

where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring in odd and beautiful flowers

meadows arise with great fury my flesh and mountains and valleys cease their separation
there are many daisies and bumble bee songs in the heart of each unborn child
each young girl touches when she watches the ponies and the daffodils sway

giant head of death ambitious reminiscence
a red mud land of untold photon castles that tremble in the night
where the owlet gathers its fat body like goblets of scotch in the night
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
where Buddha slides the eggplant curve and night falls, deep, into the ground
where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring through odd and beautiful flowers

where oingo boingo turtle eyes beam from the holes of Jesus
lay me mighty at my own feet


and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew where Buddha slides the eggplant curve
night falls deep into the ground
oddly flowers beautiful


I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
 








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Dec 2013 · 839
secret feet of balloons
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
she does not speak to me often in this way
she is the virile silence of walking truly like meadows

their time is always perfect and infinitely perfectlessness
how skies do not sing birds but are only masters of truth

but she is tender and fierce she shows me that they are innocent

when, I, confounded, aswirl with origami of things past,
she shows me a bestilled flapping silence of forgotten things

she does not speak often in this way

when her hands are like eagles tending planets
there is a secret river her eyes are filled with

these pupils of newborn seeking first sight
its graves and their strolling kisses no clock dares lie another tick

she is brightly curved; night seeks to master her sleeping motions
there is the skin of all salads I imagine I came from

when she is gone I feel  rain graveyards feed to oceans
when water braided through myths and legends and lies
is truest perfect lover, but no perfect lover is so tender and fierce

she has taught me in this way how I am
if I am a perfect child, then I am a perfect man

                                                but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with sleep"

I know why the wind is the slave of kites
and why balloons are thoughtful, secretly joyless,
but filled with bad dogs and hope

when she touches small flowers and leaves them be
I know why birds are most beautiful in flight
gracefully jetting terrifying rivers

she walking strums wild instruments into me
I wish to play like birds but only newborns are masters of truth

                                                but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with laughter"








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Dec 2013 · 420
silence
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
.




a robin upon a cliffside
       stranded, eyes me

       her eyes are bright violins, bows raised







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Dec 2013 · 1.7k
Leather Of Codes
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
leather of codes

child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets

echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed

there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice

but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been

his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen

my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair

his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer

he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music

he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more

this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken ******* may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments

I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want

his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father

that I might be coddled beyond redemption  my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense

I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take

he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been

he wears a leather of codes I can never remember

— The End —