Then all was silent

For there was a relentless

Hysteria of calm

Investing a barbarism

Of grotesque stillness

That lay about a treachery

Of gross tranquility

In the midst of human kind

All are lost for words in 2061

All, all, all are dumb in 2061

For I have seen it, the silence

Where is this? It’s here

Well more or less

I listen to the color of music

In so doing hear Arthur

Hear the candence

Of the colored vowels

Voyelles, voyelles, voyelles……..

And the world cannot contain me

Morning is reborn in broken sentences

Like the sound of skin

In a summers trickle of dispute

Covers all in a swaddling shroud

A falcon leaves flies away

With shreak tells all

There is nothing here

But this abandoned boy

I have seen their hands
Fingers that go everywhere
Those that wrest
ambivalence from themselves
To see a beautiful boy

there is a photograph of a blind ******
that stares at me when I’m not there
and a footless boy that wears my boots
who eats my toast with teeth so false
they make no impression upon its worth
there are leather wrinkles in his smile
that make me blush and wait a while
to watch and stare at his wolf red eyes
at his forced composure that does exercise
upon his boast the eating of all my toast
though I do not mind
for he is kind
and has lips of cheery red
that I wish instead
of eating toast
if all were said were kissing me instead
then I look at the picture of the blind ******
and find to my surprise
there’s no one there

The green fairy occupies my mouth as if in a dream

Senses surge past me in waves

Of perfect silence that torture the mind

I raise my eyes like a drawbridge

Getting ready for the fleet whose

Noise deafens the colour of my

Pupils

Overwhelmed the sky clasps

Me in a study and struggles to

Kiss my green lips

Aglow with blue beams its perfumed sun

Smiles and stretches me in the

Silk of the seas, where fish speak

With stars in feminine voices and

Ask my name

Floating in bliss I can not recall it

Only the selected elegance of History

Comes to mind

in a dead street
a cat owl bleeds
its mind effused
with images
of music
and the songs
that would alter
pocket thought
it  hears the echo
of a buckled sculptor
a blue and chromed car
that loots its understanding
leaves it warped
while autonomous ideas
flow in prophetic vision
as it moves between
life and death
a volitional freedom

how long to live through the next thought
to have a brief encounter with time
an impossible time of intolerable anguish
where embarking upon a sentence
is a violent wrench from perceived notions
of reality, one that causes nerves
to flay upon my body with weal's of words
where vatic poetry is wrought in trembling rages
spilling, dripping upon the traumatised
parchment that is my pages
in de-congealing interrelated drops of image
that crack the pavements
in a visual vibrancy of taut creative tension
where these words keep their own company
and speak in interrogative tongues
causing a fragmentation of earthquake fissures
to radiate across my mind in a cataclysm
of universal poison that quiets and dissolves stability
and asks, no demands of me, what can you see?

There's a dead bird in the Churchyard

It bears no shallow grave

It has no followers or mystic cause

A dead bird in a church yard alone

Not in tetralogy of artifice with Father, Son and Ghost

Thus not finding better strategies for life dies

A dead bird that has gone to be with the music of spheres

Bears no act of censorship no ridicule

Where passers by emphasize the emptiness of their concerns

there are dimensions of time
sometimes entered
not always of ones own volition
a sort of hyper reality where the world
becomes a darkness with red lit shadows
It’s as if time slows down
so it can be experienced frame by frame
as if the consciousness has become
separated from the being
it is the slow decent into something unknown
of which, at this stage
it is unknown if the author will be able to
or even wants to find the way back
for there is a welcome in this wasteland
that makes melancholy love of unknown pleasures
where all looks are concentrated
fixed yet constantly absent
and on looking skilfully
it can be figured out
what terrible riddles
have been created in the head
those who know when and how it is
those who sail in memories
who are terrorized by the imagination
and who get angry with God
ask a question a simple question
which is always the same
as is the answer
an answer that resembles
the rise and fall of cryptic waves
that ebb and flow
scorching a shore of silent sorrows
lapping ferociously at the
arc of a whirlpool within the mind
whose decreasing concentric
circles **** one down
into an eternity of terrible beauty

am I awake dreaming that I am asleep
or perhaps asleep dreaming that I am awake
yet I do dream. I dream of Brazil
where antique rages like great storms
announce themselves with a small breeze
that stands against rust in mighty waves
and stares at the bleak mid winter
eyes of oppression and by
crimson haste, dithers in despair
and watches the pages
that unleash such rages
become the cobalt colour of tombstones
who ***** themselves behind the eyes
in dramatic stages
yet is the announcement of all these
historic rages
that are outrageous
placed upon blank pages
that butchers compassion
which is almost infinitesimally brief
yet so poignant and dislocating
has a momentarily almost faint identity
that singles indefinable loss
that is expressed in all known language
and splinters the mind into dark deep waters
that the only thing that can be
trusted is this moment, this moment
is the realisation, so powerful
that one cannot do otherwise
but confront it and in so doing
feel the immense vibration of change

a white pinked pettled flower
that looks much like
a flying duck in destress
is a friend to the yellow leaved flower
though to be sure does not wear a hat
either by choice or design but by decree
because there are terrible anti-hat laws
directed at flowrers, who to some
though not to me, maybe of an oddity
for I am of a mind to believe
if flowers wish to wear hats
by all means they should be permitted to do so
so let them deal with me as they will
for I do not fear them
flower hats and for-get-me-nots
shall be are call

What mists are these

That grow heavy in the palm

Making bruises weep

These mists that place themselves

By treaty or inheritance

With such ferocity

Embalm the soul with tears

Announcing their pleasure

To be resurrected

These mists that represent a tragedy

An imagination that beholds a bleeding

Yes, a bleeding from mine eyes

A conflagration of blood

That flares a collaboration of turmoils

With effortless deployment in the mind

Erratically as if impediment does not impose

Itself upon their mortal breach

An unresponsive pace that energizes

The tragedy of my great lament

His *******’
Purloined my desire
Stole, requested expectations

My boyhood kidnapped and  
Fed secrets for other
Purposes

Blue eyes, pieces of
An unsolved jig-saw
Slotted into my need

Such theft, such theft
Such theft, such theft
So generously given.

Space confines

and Reminds me

all that we are is thought

Vandalized ink stains

Where my feelings

Were washed away

if I cry it is for help

If I'm sick it is a love song

Written on the soul

Where help is wanted

For emaciated corpses

You know, yes you know

Where the dead eyes are

Down among the leaves

Watching, watching, watching

Lists of endless lists listed

Lists of listed horrizonal lines

Lines of horrezonal listed lists

Laid out lines of lists, row after row

Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines

Lists of lists, of lists of lists listed

Lists of lists not yet listed in lines

Listed not yet lines of lists listed

Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines

Lines waiting to be listed in lines of lists

List this list, it hasn’t been listed in

Lists of lines unlisted, hold on I’ll make a

List

What meaningfulness

Of historical process

That undermines itself

With irrelevant ineptitude

Of the unpredictable

Concatenation of events

A resolution sought

Less with human intention

Than with achievement

Of contending collapse

Of its experience

And reflects the

Divine informalities

Of exuberant desire

What meaningfulness

Of historical process

That undermines itself

With irrelevant ineptitude

Of the unpredictable

Concatenation of events

A resolution sought

Less with human intention

Than with achievement

Of contending collapse

Of its experience

And reflects the

Divine informalities

Of exuberant desire

Have I been given worth

And in my hour of need

Alone, alone again indeed

Have I been given worth

That divine deformities

Present themselves upon me

Bind a hideousness of shackle

To an already confined bone

That desires a rent of tears

For folly, if folly be its place

Or something greater has its owe

A valorisation of humane feeling

Or mighty angers friends

In diabolical theater

Have I been given worth

And in my hour of need

Alone again, alone again indeed

i hear only the music that he hears
the red satin of his mind
the thoughts that drape themselves
upon the willing advancement of our spring
that self chosen fury of barbarous love
stars, flesh, flowers, tongues
compete in the magic without tears
like lazing upon endless beaches
in retribution to those
that refuse, either by inheritance or design
to recognise the precious emrald dewdrop
that lies within the foetus of our understanding
that space others cannot occupy
he has turned my rags to gold

Who is this man of which you speak

A hallow man, with a set of theatrical masks

That project grotesque shadows upon the world

A monster of evil, a creature ,yes a creature

Whose moral viciousness is vividly stamped

On his twisted body who believes

He has been cruelly cheated by dissembling nature

Yet has with skill a fathomless malice fashioned

Aye and calls for the closing of ears

To the admonitions of conscience

And to vicious energies of hate and ambition

Yes and gives to the eyes coordinates locating an illusion

Whilst he would still the lips with distance

That evaporates in a poignant lament

Of shrouds and gaping graves

Of deformed and emaciated children

Forced to hide in the darkness

The darkness that shadows his words and actions

Gives to us the unbearable fear of abandonment

That would mutate and change places

With the frequent futility of human endeavor

Who is the man of which you speak

It is a man who tosses pebbles

All strangeness consumes me

it clings to me way beyond all compass

am I somewhat unbalanced

i suspect I know the truth about

empty chairs facing a white sun

waves of my mind unroll the

white hemmed lace of their thoughts

upon the arid shores of my being

and cause the aquatic butterflies

of anecdotal memory to appear

of white sunlit streets

of meditations on pictorial images

of ideas that spark a rain-storm

of blinding brilliance

am i somewhat unbalanced

i see imaginations, colored imaginations

that turn and twist into

impossible extravaganzas of geometry

am i somewhat unbalanced

i take my shirt of it is bleeding

am i somewhat unbalanced

i hear delirious laughter

it comes from an open window

though my shirt still bleeds

am i somewhat unbalanced

a music box of magic words
of circuses, gruesome murders and monsters
a mad logic of connected disconnected things
held together by the drifting mists of dreams
first air and rainbows
destroying pious falsities, telling new tales
of many things to come, flying above the crowd
showing the blinding white distance ahead
of the two ice capped poles
past he various categories
like old people who die when the weather turns
yet there is a desire to summon and expect disaster
you've seen the show, blinding like the sun on water
matched only by the patience
of the floating fall of a ladies silk stocking
a music box that looks immensely vindicated
and in those precious seconds, these busy seconds
that mumble and murmur to themselves
of divine and temporal forces
tastes the whiff of immorality
that possesses that special skin
that cruelty of countless acquisitions
of alchemy especially its capacity to coach sorrow
to teach it to touch the regurgitated
inaccuracies of indentured truth
ah! the music box who returns the echoing roar
of answerless answers with questionable questions
yet inoculated and protected by the vast pleasures
that somehow conceal themselves within the music box
in its rhythms and its clock-work metal innards
cancel out any pain and the half closed eyes that stop the heart
shatter the sky
shower with an avalanche of magnetic attraction
the magic music box, the magic music box
Pandora's magic music box

he emerged shocking

in his reality

in the nakedness of selfhood

and cheap approximations

reduced to a simple ‘I’

to which all of us are leveled

at those instances when

we don’t have to exist for other people

it is a nameless solitude

a realm of migrant squalor

where disposable smiles

are smeared across unreasonable faces

and where one is forced to seek

a loyalty of angers in others the same

Let them see you

Grin, Grin, Grin

Then reach inside your head

Look, behold and see

The new apostate

That incubates within

Amidst gray garlic skies

Swells a deafening despair

It laments the death of yesterday

And in its ineffable grief

Appears as a drop, yes a drop

It is green and resembles

A soft wind blown thus among clouds

By the ordinance of chance

Across black boulevards

And here the legendary

Taste of ashes fills the air

Where a single breath disperses

Galactic calculations through green glaciated lips

at this time in the past right here

it used to be real

oh!...oh! for another reality

to leave this false perception

and go...go...go to feel the wind

on another's face

to see with another's eyes

how the colours appear to them

to hear what another hears

with an innocent ear

to feel the euphoria

that slows the world down

to have another's departure

from all perceived notions of reality

to a new understanding

another reality

where brief encounters with time

start with the embarkation of a sentence

that causes a curious disquiet

to race through the nerves

ricocheting in a vibrancy

of vatic vitality, a creative tension

transforming the cortex

creating new unforeseen images

a new reality where thoughts are visible

and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind

dazzling with a universal symbolism

that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words

scatters and amplifies the distinctions

of the senses, into a new reality

one of convulsive voices

oh! this new reality

it causes me to walk to a stranger

who is myself

and forms a true disintegration

of a controlled focus

on a beautiful disorder of

chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse

of the emotions, where blood stains smile

lavishly with a different vocabulary

destroying a predictable reality

and forges a new one that entertains discovery

of other dimensions.. which are the figments

of another's imagination

it is solitary encapsulation of ideas

that glitter on my tongue

where conflagrations of burning water

swirl dramatically in difficult articulation

of the smells and rancid ***** stains

of the ordinary that tries but is precluded

from the stream of consciousness

rushing in a discord of sympathies

through the inner geography of my mind

and forges a symbolic relationship

with these inplosively brief encounters with time

causing psychic post apocalyptic

predispositions to a false mimesis

The lime trees are heavy with the glitter of wind

Words like a host of flies buzz inside my mouth

A fire roars in my head an apocalyptic holocaust

My sentences articulate themselves

Like an ****** bruise on a boys neck

Appearing with a rapacious and concentrated existence

Forcing me into an uncompromising solitude

A concealment like the sitting of a stone in its own shadow

I am on the other side of time where transient moments

Imprint themselves on other people’s minds

Forming and colliding in immense fictions

But there is also a sustained silence

Within the speed and space of thought

That holds the creature of my metaphysical anguish

There is a boy bathed by the light of the full moon
I wrote about it, then I burned it
Now.. sitting in the shade of the budding lime trees
I realize that which is once written..cannot be destroyed
An oddness is abroad I believe
An oddness that allows for the purchasing of warm apricot juice
An oddness that produces groundless but powerful fears
An oddness producing an impulse to run away
An oddness that weaves itself into a shape among the sultry and coagulated air
An oddness in the shape of a boy
Captured by the blue light of a full moon in the middle of the day
I shut my eyes but the vision flutters before me
As if it is impressed on tissue paper
Blown gently by a soft breeze
The boys face though beautiful is one made for derision
I think to myself..this can't be.. but alas it is
For when I now open my eyes the hallucination
For that's what I believe it to be
Still flutters before me as a candle flame flickers
My heart is beating in a wild desperation
I am about to scream
The mirage dissolves itself and the boy vanishes
The fear that has griped me evaporates
I put the whole episode down to the drinking
Of warm apricot juice on a very hot day
But am I wrong am I wrong...that would be an oddness

there is a seperation

a pain of seperation

such as a seperation

that only lovers specialise in

where the prevention of thought

is like a fortress overrun

where trampling terrains of concern

stampede upon the praire of the mind

transforming it into a soft savanna

of wating engagements

that murmer with comforing enchantments

lays upon such pain of seperation

as that of a perforated scar

seared across the heart

bringing tickles of soft warm tears

to the cheeks

the happist time becomes

a chasm only conquerd

by that gulping unification

of embrace

where soft burning lips

meet in that unknown

but express language

of clasped reunion

it is that pain, that awful pain

that only lovers know

How do I translate him

His language that has no tongue

He of such familiar style

Whose behavior leaves

A weak communication

Balanced on my lips

With such elusive possession

That transforms me into

A strange image

Who trembles as if

In an appalling malady

When views such an

Exquisitely beautiful profile

For he makes me bear

The extremity of dire mishap

Of pale uncertainty that is

At once pleasurable and disturbing

Who, who can teach me a direction

Such as would map the constellation

Of his beauty and have the words to say

That which in communication would

Leave a bond between us so powerful

That perhaps tender lip of parting breath

Could touch and move endlessly

Through a spiced moonlit night

Who, oh who can give me such translation

Please speak

my imagination scalds
with violating stains
of contemptuous familiarity
agonised shrieks
confront my mouth
with an unremitting combustibility
while a frustration like a volatile tornado
engulfs me with an hallucinated savagery
detonating unrelenting explosions
within my consciousness of perception
causing a hurricane of momentum
bringing such oddities to my mind
as such precludes their proper elucidation
yet a tempestuously implosive inner cosmos
is located a volcanic insurgence
the accelerative storm on which
the poem like Valkyries rides

…what visions before my eyes do materialize…whereas they are invoked by a small white pill I do believe….they shimmer and dance like candle flames at night…throwing shadows upon the walls…strange shadows…dancing shadows…shadows of the mind…shadows who pose no questions and make only judgments upon themselves…shadows of tomorrow that are shadows of today who were once the shadows of yesterday….a poem is born…..

Words move and dance

Like shimmering beams

I know all is not what it seems

For they move in such undelightful grace

I know not where or is their place

Then all at once as if by chance

Change their charismatic dance

Which has left me in such a trance

It continues in far advance of all

The things I can enhance and leaves

Me feeling in Wondrous Joy

Of that beautiful rhythmic Charville boy

outer, inner what are realities

conscious, unconscious

differing thought that gives

tangible form to such as that

which has only existed in my imagination

when voiced indicate the delirium

of those dark despairs

that hang pitch black draperies upon the wall of my mind

in continuous distortion of ordinary motives

amplify my feelings, implosive and apocalyptic

forming an agonized arena of anguish

whose illusion is a disguise of perplexities

in a deployment of destrubing exchanges

of dubious sense that sit like a petulance

upon the mind

while I in patience stand smiling at my grief

Not utterances of unsolvable contradictions,no

He speaks to me, do you not understand

In incantatory language, intense, so intense

It creates a new heaven and earth

He speaks with magic words

Whose overpowering proof of authenticity

Is in their unawareness of my presence

And would that this be the status of my language

In a world wedded to nothingness this language

Creates a fresh reality that floats free of the body and society

His words are the occupiers of a new

Magical, passionate and transformative speech

That become an absolute singularity in the mind

Where time is stilled in cancellation to a complement

Forms the magical realm of reciprocal imagination

Unfettered falsehoods that lure by practice of pretense

Make subject to a tyranny of questionable inquisitions

That claim themselves both by treaty and inheritance

Pursue with a vigor blind narcoleptic dancers with a ferocity

That embalms the bones with the tears of a million fans

Who in such tragedy represent that image and behold him

His limb freshly bleeding reading his words in lamentation

I have died a juniper bar

I will take this as a moon rise

Seldom in youthful prodigality

Of ingots minus three

...it ran out of petrol...then the camel died and we had to eat marshmallow biscuits surrounded by green monkeys.......:) Edgar

For all of us who know the pain

Of Valentines that never came

A stone terrain waits

A landscape deserted

Devoid of real

Or imagined explorations

For it turns inward

At a tangent that

Precludes inquiry

It has an articulation

Of slow deliberate movements

Where particularized

Geology has painted it

Cut off and disconnected

By an estrangement of creation

Other existences only serve

To magnify its sense of isolation

Its blank uncaring non-geometric

Dimensions of observable

Unquantifiable location is obscure

And unrealised

Producing an immediate

Initiated sensory experience

Of unreleased silent appraisal

But why does it wait?

What for

Does it anticipate or foresee

Some expected prediction

Of apocalyptic presentiment

Is it recalling color?

Or is it experiencing

The present like floating in a dream

Alas there is no clue

To its tilted yet frozen expectancy

A stone terrain waits

do I possess an inner reality
one of hallucinatory psychosis
and if so is it
incorruptible
immutable
does it float on my breath
confiscating my words
is it a projection of my self
like watching a movie
disconnected
yet caught on the edge
of a dematerialization
which reflects images that mob my head
causing me to think of rats
that slink out of drains at noon
and whispers in the mouth
like a static interference on my mind

there is a stranger that I knew

perhaps you know him too

a stranger with velvet eyes

and dust on his tongue

there is heard an amplified distinction of sounds
smells of accelerated inner vertigo
a feeling of immanent death
the distillation of blood stains on the sheets
an impulse of volatilized emotion
that generates a different vocabulary
creates a fixation with a considered state
of inner concerns, entertains other dimensions
discovers with sinister undertones
that one is a figment, yes a figment
of someone else’s imagination
that you are a a fascinated but unfortunate escape
from a brutal insensitivity that sustains a mind
that teeters at the jagged edges of the world
for is it you… are is it who, an hallucinated perception
of the I, the we, the them and the me

At last, at last, at last!

I have found it

A dissecting table

That has upon it

An umbrella and a typewriter

And some ink stains

That have dried upon

A tongue

Thank you Isidore

Ground smolders and smokes

Luminescent men, humps at the front

**** and poke

The air acrid, the smell of burning stone

On a wall three boys

Gaze, eyes wide, mouths

Marleyesque, dropping

Bewitched as the florescent men

Smooth and calm the steaming earth

Spraying water from a can

To quench its thirst

The seething, black

And exhausted ground

Murmurs in sick response

To its own fragmented curse

A yellow dragon near by

Belches black blood

Oozing from its innards

Through Gothic gargoyle mouth

The lime coloured men shovel

This toxic *****, smear it

Across the gasping earth

That lies, ripped like a jagged

Wound on a dying man

The lime colored men

Mount the yellow dragon

Speed off, leaving

The scorched ground

Burning and hissing,

With sulphurous smoke

A million sizzling angry snakes

The three boys run away in freight

Dropping playthings as they fumble

And tumble in their horrified flight

The black earth cries, bubbles

And consumes their toys

Passes sentence

Makes them L'Enfant Commune

The lost boys

Then there is a quiver

A tedious tremble, a treble;

That played like stretched

Elastic flicked with

Forefinger and thumb

Making the heart numb

Extracting false confessions

A stench of putrid untruth

*** charades of delicate

Ravaged faced youth

A drole de ménage

Slave to the hunger

Of the unknown demand

The French grooming

Of horses, that may charm

The curious but leaves curiosity

Still smouldering in the

Hidden depths of the

Universal mind

Sanumbolists in the

Fullness of a dream of

Ineffable torture consume need

The boys cry out, for the

Earth has stolen a liars tongue

Branded them abominable

With decaying enormities

Detestable, enamelled eyes

Lurk and peer from

Behind gauzed curtains

A corpse of understanding

That inspects the invisible

Images of imbeciles

Parchments dripping in powdered

Crystalline drops smear the pavements

The boys wave their arms

But no-one sees them

There is the rise and fall of cryptic waves

That ebb and flow scorching

A shore of silent sorrows

Lapping feverously at the

Arc of a whirlpool

Whose decreasing concentric

Circles **** the boys down

Into an eternity of hot tears

Leaves them without parents

Gives their brothers and sisters

Into a slavery of barbarous belief

A ferocious language

Banning the boys from all beaches

Provides tyrannical pilgrimages

To black robbed priests

Possessors' of serpents' hearts

The yellow dragon returns

Lemon coloured men spill

From its foaming mouth

The boys hide behind

Dead rose bushes

Ah, but their tenebrous

Trembles creak in the

Blotched and bloodied

Butchers sawdust

A fabulous elegance cradles them

Making the smoking dragon angry

It spews molten bile taken

From the bloated stomachs

Of white beasts

The luminosity of the

Lemon coloured men

Increases to blindness

They wave tattered antediluvian

Bark and scream from

Their dark, deceitful, anchored armchairs

From railed and spiked alters

Spitting bitterest gall

The lemon coloured men

Butcher the fabulous elegance

Leaving the boys naked

Prey to the perfections of

Puerile generosities

That vows to extinguish

Their human desire

Vacant eyes with

Nauseating sight strut

A cruel distortion

Terrifying voices offer

Demonic destruction

The boys weep, but

no-one hears them

A violent paradise

Of popular poses tries,

But fails to caress them

The dragon burns the boys

But no-one smells them

Their terror turns to molten flesh

The lemon coloured men

Spread it over the earth

The beast' heart beats

Joyfully in its bulbous belly

Sacred men smile while

Pitiless priests provide

A comedy

The boys become a hallow

Antique night their left

Legs held up for all

To see

Delirium devours the minds

Of a subjugated people

The deadly hissing of the earth

Like a silken spectre rises

Making scintillating shudders

Through the spiked splinters

Of time

Intelligence is reduced

To the rubble of religious

Intolerance

Lime, yellow, lemon drips

Heated plastic from false eyes

There are cries, sights and sounds

But no-one hears, sees or speaks

No real people are left

Similar boys watch from a wall

Huddle together and weep

It is the taste of sea salt
On your skin I love the most

Eating shellfish from your hand
Sun, warmth, sea sand

Tasting sun oil
Through the brine

Capturing, encapsulating
Summertime

Licking ice cream of your nose
As we lay here both unclothed

Except for swimming pants
That make elders peer

And young men advance
As if to get a better glance

Shellfish swimming down our throats
Trickling on moist lips a toast

It is the taste of sea salt
On your skin I love the most

There is a wind

a wind that displaces me

from the limitations  of the present

it locates me in a century

i shall never live to see

a coloured wind

that overtakes me

lifts me out of this present

transports me into

the fragments of a fiction

it is a wind with violet eyes

it disperses me

into celebrated elements

a wind that cradles me

listens to me

a wind that stops me

in mid-sentence

makes me fumble

over the cohesion of my words

it is a wind that

drapes the mirrors

causes voluminous

approbation of thought

across purple, blue and red lit canals

a wind that is

the potency of a swallowed aphrodisiac

blowing through my veins

a wind of implacable silence

that causes me to hear

the tireless serration of

my mind expiring

on the last moonlit beach

a yellow leaved flower
with a black mustache
and a very peculiar hat
well perhaps no to the flower
for it is after all on its head
then again the yellow leaved flower
may find the hat funny and well, most peculiar
and thus sports it in defiance of convention
for yellow leaved flowers it seems
are by law forbidden to wear hats
peculiar or otherwise.
how strange

Such vicious energies of hate
That propels an enactment
Of intense and exhausting experience
Where vigorous rhetoric of contending factions
Show inability to shape a moment into coherent form
Providing only chaos