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When they want
For wealth and gold and pearls

They will rip it from your
Hands and from the clam,
With the hunger of lust and malice

Swallowing life whole
The lost thieves of old...
Those who only feed the wolf
Loving dogs for more than thee.

It's curious to think
They presume that it is wealth
That heaviness of gold  
Just A mystic rock just melted chains.

The other a product of invertebrates

To lug about with them
Their wares
**** Flashing all who happened by
Their wares
There's no use for a sack of pearls

When here we get
And get got
Seed
           Fertile minds
A wealth unmatched
Seeds
[Point to the temples of our skulls]
Sow there
A chain of pearls...

How I should want
To learn from the honor
Of good fathers
Great pearls of their wisdom

How I should rather covet
          the wisdom of a clam
How an alien looking thing
          Under endless canopies
          Of un drinkable seas
Could be awarded / afforded   "Creation"

(You better should know)

The artistic hand of  Masterpiece
Shaping all
Opalescence
                  Almost to the utmost
Diamond cuts

How godlike is this gift
From the mouth
Like the clam ...

What treasures could be better heard
When all the world
Spoke Love
The language of divine "Creation."
 Nov 2016 Dionne Charlet
Wanderer
Pieces fall
Snowflake shapes
Each reflect differently
In its descent from Hrímfaxi's mane
For I am Nótt, scarred by shadow
A blanket of stars tattooed across my brow
Reigns of frost dangle from crescent fingertips
Guiding dreams through the night
An ode to us 3am worshippers.
(From the crack
In a crumbling wall

One tiny flower
Defies all
wilted pink

Blushing at dawn)

Wildflower dark road
Wet shining rain

Clustered under hedgerow
Berry-red

Walking past-
Fragrance
What is a mirror without vanity?

Youth chemically plastered

smitten by Hollywood delusions

Eager limbs with a fine insect coating

What is time without thievery?

The years go and we are left with these empty spaces

Sometimes filled with television glow and robot trances

The kindle and cookies

Let the crumbs gather for the microscopic

What is life without a tilt?

Pour the paranoid another drink and nod at the bankrupt morality

Pat the cornered fiend and comfort his hate filled hindsight

observe a wasted generation

Hysterically hydrated and slumped

What is God without interpretation?

Mine is not yours

but I admire the tenacious taste of a salvageable salvation

I appreciate kindness in all forms

Whatever way it may manifest itself

A smile is a smile

What is a beginning without an end?

Find peace or guilt the path may be up too you

Sometimes the path may be chosen for us

It takes a strong mind
to reject their idea of happiness
For the sake of your own
There it is, that recurring image of the world through the end of a straw with my own body in darkness. My feet become the concrete on which they stand and everything is a vibration I'm not a part of. There it is, that walk home where my feet wilt the weeds and the sun darkens the street. My toes dry the silt into dust and the waiting wind blows it around me and heat congeals it into the pores of my skin. So there I am, walking on weeds with dust skin baking in the sunlight staring at the world through a tiny orb of light occasionally dotted with a foreign, unforgiving face. The wasps in my frontal lobe are agitated again, buzzing and pushing against confines of my orbital sockets up into my forehead. Even shutting my eyes doesn't help this time and all that heaviness without origin still remains, subtly flattening brain matter like the insidious unfurling of a fan.
We strolled through converging pathways spilling with synchronized chaos, finding our own space amidst the rumpus of the crowds on a small hill overlooking an endearing muddle of humanity. The grass was wet with evening dew and we were colored with the aureate light of dusk, watching everything swim by with novel delight. The city erupted before us, vibrant, apathetic, and amoral and we swelled with its magnitude. Round and enchanted, we rolled down the hill and fell into the peculiar happenings encapsulated in the windows.
We stood before a man with no eyes and worms coming out of his fingertips in a room with no floor. He smiled at us, carious teeth bending into slight parabolas under the pressure of its sweetness. We excused ourselves quickly, escaping into a opaline kaleidoscope that had opened up before us. I could taste all the lives we tumbled past as a mix of bitter almonds and grapefruit with the occasional shock of decomposing fish heads.
We squeezed our bodies into the melody of a madrigal sung by a girl with four heads and sonorous hands to find ourselves in the rafters of an old cathedral. Below us contorted souls filed into wooden confessionals screaming sins of their fathers into the ear of a deaf priest who gave copacetic blessings in the form of an orange pill bottle. Distended and bruised, we fell from the ceiling into the baptismal font. Bioluminescent algal blooms effloresce above our heads and resplendent stingrays whisked by, casting soft, amorphous shadows across our cheeks. Lulled by the etherial tenderness of the liminal world, we fell asleep with your hand on my neck and my fingers tangled in your seaweed hair.
We awoke to the sound of falling peaches and splitting skin. I pulled a small fish out from behind your ear and inhaled the brine of your tongue before stepping into the open window beneath your pinkie finger. A man in a suit who was really a box jellyfish greeted me in the center of a opulent office building that had no purpose. I politely declined to shake his hand and instead lost myself in the map of the city unfurled beneath the wall of glass in front of me. I pulled a small seashell out of my pocket and threw it. Everything shattered.
I felt you next to me, falling through space and low-lying clouds to find ourselves in the present.
We are saturated colors of mustard, earthen green, and midnight blue sprawled on sloping grass without hesitation. Buoyant and expectant, we meander through song and chatter to find ourselves bright and shining on a warm green bench talking in improvised harmony. Our skin is a new composition of window light, yellow and breathing. A synthesis of memories pool and flush our cheeks with affection and we inhale the world. Flags pirouette and fall, a refracted constellation glimmers on glass, and you taste like honey and rich smoke. The moon is ebullient, so full and round that in a gasp I pluck it from the sky and place it in your shirt pocket. We’re effervescent, with giggling fingertips on a euphoric investigation into novelty of human sensation. Somnolent and gentle, we fall asleep with the memory of our water soaked bodies burgeoning under softened hands.
We were on the curb and
    Our toes were numb
You talked about impossibility and I was too loud
            (It was dark and the neighbors could hear)
Your lips looked softer in headlights
     And artificial electricity
I tried not to stare because if I looked too closely
I could see you
You took the eyes on your fingertips
       And saw up my sweater
And my palms inhaled your cologne
             (The gravity of familiarity)
I felt like a silhouette on the concrete
My head was underwater and your body was a few
      Inches about the surface
I could almost feel you
We left our shadows behind a parked car
    And you left an imprint in my mouth
I can still taste you under my tongue if I think about it
Move off that street
            I think they knew and it screams of metal
Some mountains pretend
They are unmoving

Their subtle lie
Pretends to permanence.

We are apart
For some reason
I cannot fathom

But trust
The chi
What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.

What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,
Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
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