Justicia, undue, un-dewed, *****
But spiralled, like convolvulus vine
crawling past pinstriped stems that harrow
the spitting aches in tandem.
Behold bent
Blossoms whose petals, like
Whose dead men's lids,
Have yet to be teased awake--
Justicia! Blind you are!
Lower the sword-swung abraders, buckle
their knees, on-pounding earth surrender.
Grand gems mark and drip along their lips
Rightly red, though creeps on
Soft pink Vertigo, and dizzying stints
Above my sinking mossy senses--
Justicia, undue, un-dewed, *****
But sunken, lady Hyacinth shall never
bloom near your toe-thin tread.
Long may her purple bleed into
your blindess.
Long may your sword lay low.

—Salty oceans
of tragedy and memory
roll waves that pick and
toss you about,
like sand and shingle

And down-tread all
who saw these things,
these

Cedar-gripping hands and waving eyes,
strike above due caution, once you drank
and receded to sock-grey humour
to hide these things

And down-tread all
who saw these things,
these

Chippings were distracting. But I am just one,
here and now. So I always wondered,
When the others disappeared to—

Taken aback largely by
coveted fate born of star-blind wishes,
have I riveting cause for concern
when I tilt my head to skies
unheard of or ne'r seen before?
against the risen ridges of my veins,
dawn cast shadows steeper than any
mountain range.
So I cry, "Out Sun!"
for its light burns the peeks more than
I could bear, and dries up
valley springs of youth hidden there.

It is so I've come to pray,
Sweet destiny, free from celestial rule,
bake my hubris, till my needs,
water down my ambitions until
between my rushing arteries buds
grand daffodil and tempest lilies.

Nails that rake
far across closed backs,
mind's all but grinding teeth,
granting rings of thyme, and smoked thin
it shrieks amongst feathered
patience.
Jaundice all sentiment,
and rack my nerves
a blaring sparking
mess
for I brand my black grin
like a whiskey bottle brown
found, but in gutter glinting
fevers-- down swims my nerves.

Oh, memory strike
down my waning pride,
and like the visceral
oceans in the sky,
fall each dawn as dew,
and surge each paling dusk,
pour like torrents
of monsoons \ hurricanes.
Serve only as a reminder
of the wars I've lost, and
the battles I've just begun.

Hollowed murmurs crawl
From shaken wells you've sprouted
From; ventured farther than most
who've pined for gold noons.

They call, reverent,
To the passion-oranges n'
decaying yellows,
to wrap you from winters foul grip.
But fail. And lay frozen in powdery
sweet dusk.

Ear, to burrow in quaking chests,
pounding pink whilst sirens called and
loud whistles of graveyards
outkeep the unkempt—men, in their shawls
of brown hung thinly like spider-silk
or like apt shadows, swung deep
and knit their brow low.

Tongue, to pinching Khor,
dragged down winding crawling asphalt,
where men marched and limped on to
the serpents and salt-seas which lead them
guffawing, down and blackly sombre—
charred palate quelled creaking groans of iced-marrow;
but it bit back in fury and in mute litanies.

Nose, to pyre in cotton-burnt glory,
red-cent’s ****** odour sent all, sent many,
to swoon Mr. Moon from silver times
and to slice dawn thick with orange rind—
the kind that stung the flesh beneath
your bruised fingernails as a child, as you peeled.

Teeth, to grate and whitely brace
for cold and plunging lines that blighted
everything in vertigo’s favor. There was them,
there was me, and there was you—
but, skulls you see
were calcium's concern, as Earth, not the mother,
consumed all, and condensed became

         life and breath
     to
stone and mineral.

Plain n' simple true,
Dread is wholesome and
Speaks in quakes, here. For the
Monster fear looms ever near.

Slow it creeps, wagging tongue
Dripping lies like maggots
Spill from the bloated dead.
Vigor and lust are well eaten
And moths and dust are all
That remain of 'love-making'.

But tracing at first, golden
At the very last glimpse.
Wet eyes, hushed gripes at
nothing: Behold, I'll march.

I'll march well-receded upon
The dusk. I'll march well-seeded
Upon the morn'. I'll march well-sympathised
Upon the wine-smooth caresses of dawn.

For a ghost longing for death, I am
What is plain. What is simple. What is
True.

We search seas for rough
cleansing, but
some times, some new
some old,
we search for her to lap away
the warmth in our sun-born flesh,
to ease away the white-hot-heat and frenzy,
till her cold wet fatigue may kiss us full
of calm, of passivity, of loftiness, of sea-foam docility
and to chill our temperment some.
Sip her blessings, child,
but I warn you, her cup overfloweth
and in your wanting,
your pining doubt,
an open mouth spells a ominous quiet,
and a hushed sigh of grief--
for the sea mourns your passing--
or rather, the passing of the warmth
she grasped too quickly at
when your heavy head dipped too low
too weakly, and bright eyes closed cold
and meekly.

Good intentions
all misconstrued
to emo-orthodoxy.

I came to the sea,
where she lapped
and fled so easily,
but in my wanting
I saw her not.
…But the clouds came.
They came, they went—
and shyness was the shore
where I rested my heavy
soggy head, to offer up dreams
to the dying warm gold of grain,
in defiance to the cold n' coming rain.

O’ watch for a spindly ****
of a boy, with freckles
scattered like ants! With
timid face splattered with sins
and grins alike, he’ll dance.
Round dawn and night he’ll go
till eyes grow wide with fog.

Down his belt swings, tight and old,
his laughs creep long like silver snakes
birthed from mountain spring.
Yes, this youth of sparrow-chatter
had naked apolline humor, though
quietly when morning spread past his reigns
Dionysian he was in bearer pinker treads.

O’ know him you may as the flitting
shadows that wrap your eyes in sleep,
But test his temper! Bleat and ba
and call him friend!
And know, as bushes are coloured
with flower and thorn,
no dream is sum nor ample
lacking the seventh young prince of discord.

We Titans, with fated breath, our cheer bursting in claps,
in thunder.
And we, whose loud romps, shook the world.
Soda-pop sticky, barefoot, n' green laughs rickety,
We spurred on with cold weighing our fingertips.
We saw the paling pink joys of seashells
leaping, lunging, skidding in surging shallow waves.

We Titans, naked few, have shared this all,
held it in our young palms firmly.
And against the retreating cool of night, we stood.
Laughing as it hurried across the winds,
stirring the sleepy beach town behind,
as both our eyes greedily swallowed the gold,
the light, that chased the milky-blue horizon away.

We Titans, shivering under waves and waving long arms,
like the branches that cradled us when the sun
spilt himself down and baked our cheeks red.
Wore nothing, but the lightening we huffed
and slung around our waists. Our triumph of
bursting might cracked open our little chests and mingled
secrets and giggles, purging the boredom until
only the return of night set us fearful and plain.

We Titans, were the jokers, the rulers,
the paupers and the villains. Gilded trust we wielded
and yielded upon one another. Our bond like a flame
in the dark of our eyes that hid what we feared.
And tender did it flick, twirling across the faces of
monster and friend, as we sipped the dying daylight as youths.

We Titans, though age may pull us far from tumbling seashells,
may rage and call one another from dubious memory.
But our friendship still dances here,
as a destiny set in the soft pale pink trembles of my dreams.

An impish dweller of
sunless times, but a Guardian
of the monsoons within which
our thoughts raced as fast
as lightening did across the wet
patio tiles and those pouring black skies.

My brothers, they smelled
of grass blades,
of sun-ripened wheat.
But I smelled of barren
waterlogged dirt, sickly and twisted
with sour veins, but left flowering
a heavy rain-sodden smile.

Only now as I sulked
in years, ruminating,
fermenting,
I grew sullen.
Sapless and fruitless, I sought
the meaning of your touch and devotion.

For, I grew no roses,
sung no sweet scent,
sank spines and dried sympathies...
But you stopped
a moment,
And your cheeks
teased my petals with warmth
that rivalled any sun.

Deep earthen roots, gold arrow-tips,
Sounding rush of green applause
Now, trees and bark stretch to
Higher lows of raptured skies.

Wide face of etched ranks and--
Here His marks tread and silence falls
Quite tenderly under winding timber,
Woodworks, Tree-rings, bound around
As clocks tick to celestial Grange's face.

His deeds show across baked-ancients
And those whose sun came creeping under
Horizontal terms and periods-- in lapses
when Time held his own--

On winding old branches with buds smelling
Young n' green n' poking free from yellow scars,
Time garnered his people, his children and dead,
housed them in ticks and tocks and surnames,
For Twilight's enamelled hubris to bathe them,
Wash them.

To set them in winding bark,
And brand them in Himself,
In Winding Tree-tocks.