The message is simple, the delivery hard,
even as his eyes cut holes for it to enter.
White rims that flash, like beasts that spar
Natural strobes flicker, to thicken the black center.
When intent is replied with padded knuckle intent
Ungraceful, his neck turns past comforts vector.
I turn away to close a window from the storm.

Thought pathways like drunken footprints stepped
but a spark in the cloud of numbness replies.
My clenched thumb releases his bicep
And the arthritic cogs inside us violently un-subside.
Those muscle strings in my handwriting
to the letter the red bull replies,
but rain breaks my gaze to the window.

Knuckles like bruised alps in formation;
the boy’s got blood lightning in his eyes,
And so have I. ***** in the sockets I’m pushing on,
to revel in colors of my ****** mind’s sky.
I hurt myself to try telling that one ****** idea.
Tasting the punch, spitting iron, my Boxer I despise.
The classic writer’s hand ache makes me relinquish my pen.

Those axons, which lead to nothing,
they have now reached it.
Flayed to the winds.
The eye’s blinds closed completely.
In darkness, rasping breath resounding
and the lungs like strained gluttons for life
are clearly mocking the hearts desperate beating.

I put the pen horizontal to the desk.
It possesses all the use of a dead man’s organs.

But the sway, rains sweat from hair down to skin,
Then to polish the padded domes of pain.
When flesh rolls like thunder, bones crack like lightning.
His legs, my pen and both our minds are jarred from this refrain.
And upon the strike,
I’ll polish words and pad their meaning,
Punch the reader,
And enjoy the force that they contain.

To you i would give the passion of the sun
and the shine provoked from simmered grass
and if the moonlight was not safe from your eye,
it's buttermilk glow i would surely pluck down.
To you i would give the midnight chimney smoke
that sillouette on the sky putting cobbles underfoot.
Take my taste of salt as sea white mer-men come
a breeze in the laughter of workmen's homecoming.
I give the feeling when swallowed by field flax
pinpricks of cotton, i'd lay you down bare-skinned.
You empty the film on my flesh camera,
I keep the removal cuts.

Her form is a one-way mirror aimed at hate.
Our truth is of a beauty waiting
this small unstable set, glacial pure dewrop,
unrippled to the wind to which she's always braced.
Features from her face protrude, and are held strong
but so diminutive soft and smooth to the air
and trickling gypsy tresses fall at these cheeks.
Swaying together as hair-like feather veins,
so threadbare, stopping on her upturned lip ridge.
A red capillary wave carrying rouge,
so often now to be splashed under those cheeks.
All so often now those eyes catch me.
Hue of deep sleeping, enough to lose the awake.
every blink closed my airways. So i gasp
at the rising of those two black suns.
Her truth is what se sees in us however.
The glass cracks like mercury lightning with the attack,
she turns the mirror, to see herself in it's back.

As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.

Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.

In the mind of the girl i love,
i will be that guy she liked to kiss once,
and that's enough.
It's enough to know,
that one second frame of her life
was entirely infected with my colour.
It's enough to know,
that those two brown oculi turned to find me.
Perhaps they blindly guessed in my absence.
It's enough to know,
that i breathed in her passion sighs,
the hot winds before the storm subsided.

And when i am a taste far since removed
under layers on her tongue.
She will be still alight in my most
lonliest moments to remain;
like this line, and lights floating on the stream.

I handed my spare Arthur Miller book over
like custody in the early days
and it's enough to know
my sentiment was captured.
Refreshed by the page turn breaths,
but it's enough to know to pain me
that she will probably need refreshing.