By all means, Mr. Man,
Wear your paper suits.
You have corrupted a
Face the notes are black.
I go for the symbolic,
It is my language;
Like a chirping bird
We may be sparrows to
Your sky scraping hawk
But we have a mountain
Perch with collective shrieks.
And you, Mr. Man, you
Have a nest of money
In your concrete churches
Where you are comfortable.
So relax, Mr Man, you
Still have your briefcase shields.
But one day your paper suits
Will be our kindling.

If I was writing from the face of a clock
I would have to inform you of this:
(beware asking such)
Each tick is money, curled
And sounds heard we all know
But pretend otherwise.
I suggest, dear nobody,
You ask someone else
For my times

tap me and listen for the echo.
a jostled shoulder before this,
did you hear the big bang?
I don't suppose in the grand design
that it was as big as the first,
but it deafened my insides.
if you listen hard
(and here I am a coward,
earplugs like shields)
can you hear?
my arteries are a web of whispers.
please try to keep the noise down.

You could ask me but
I would not know;
Whether it is a resting dragon
On top of a trove of treasure or
A curled up cat on a carpet.
You could ask me and
I would tell you;
Both are calm and certainty
Is in the storm.

All the day has happened
And it is always 'goodbye'.
There are salmon swimming
In the sky, again.
I'd go fishing,
If you were here, but
I'm slinging a lonely camera flash
Into the ocean still,
Just waiting for you to bite.

I wish to scale the column
Of your neck, a mountain
To climb, enamel marks following.
I'd place a flag with fevered lips
And jump

Down, a soaring rush,
Descent into that hollow pool
Of heated skin, and swim
In hazy seas with sails
Caught on fervent breath;

Floating, who knows how,
On shared clouds;
(later)
A memory foam kiss like
The parted lips of dawn

Hollow footsteps echo
In blue-vein corridors.
My blood is ink and,
With each new step,
It spills and leaves
A trail of droplet words