Smoking is a working class disease
They said; he smiled at this.
Lean in body and broad of mind
With shirtsleeves rolled,
A modern man's philosopher
Who stuttered over the words
Like his fingers did over her chassis
Detroit rolling iron beneath his palms
Grease and lubricant under the nails.
The cigarette cherry glows in the dark
Giving him a hard edge aura  
The gloaming settling into the lines
Of his work-worn face

Poison spoon fed the nodding King and ended ancestors.

Holy cows bought government *****
and ate suicides grown by ***** Kubla Khan gospels.

Shantih, Leviticus, and other proper thoughts
kissed arms of air and made islands from memories of breakfast.

Eternity perished in the illusion of swallowed tongues
in the belly of an infant—
and yesterday,

Only one bullet of hallelujah stood swimming.

There sits a lovely maiden,
  The ocean murmuring nigh;
She throws the hook, and watches;
  The fishes pass it by.

A ring, with a red jewel,
  Is sparkling on her hand;
Upon the hook she binds it,
  And flings it from the land.

Uprises from the water
  A hand like ivory fair.
What gleams upon its finger?
  The golden ring is there.

Uprises from the bottom
  A young and handsome knight;
In golden scales he rises,
  That glitter in the light.

The maid is pale with terror--
  "Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay,
It was not thee I wanted;
  Let go the ring, I pray."

"Ah, maiden, not to fishes
  The bait of gold is thrown;
The ring shall never leave me,
  And thou must be my own."

If only he wrote poems for
her like Byron did those
whom he knew, if only her

man took time to put pen
to paper, rather than his fist
to her cheek or jaw or pushed

her to the floor to have his way.
She liked the Byron book, kept
it by her bed or in her bag to

take out to read to **** the
words to her head. If only her
man had the good grace to

speak in such a way to make
her feel loved or needed, not
talked to like something on the

end of his shoe or poked about
till black and blue. Maybe one
day he will changed, she mused,

maybe he’ll speak to her in finer
tones in lovers’ words in softer
voice in kinder ways, as if some

inner fire blazed, not bellowed
at or cursed or punched till dazed.
She opened the book and read

her favourite lines, the words
caressed her, brought her joy
and enlightenment, not like him

and his dark side, violence, brutality
and punishment. Reading out loud
is difficult when her lips are swollen

or her bruised eyes are closed by
his vicious rage, then the words
sit silent on the open white page.

les étoiles s'allongent dans les champs des chambres noires,
les mers, perdues dans le papier-nuit des temps,
un poisson glisse en aval
et,
le sommeil des pelouses,
vu d'en bas hier soir,
dure encore.

la lune, un orateur dans les bois; elle dire:
"j'oublie le ciel d'azur,
je deviens le nageur à heure du dîner
jusqu'à l'éclipse d'aube,
je crie sous le vide,
sous l'eau d'octobre, se termine,
et
la marée, sur ces mers,
s'affaiblit
en bruit de rêve."

et moi, dévisageant la solution des points claires,
miniscules et faible lueurs,
je m'anime,
encore endormi, toujours,
toujours endormi,
tant que les arbres respirént,
tendres et lents.