He writes invisible lines on horizontal, murk.
Twisting the phalanx lance similar to a shimmering rod
The iron blade edge combusting moth shrimp
As they ride onto a load to gather currency
The coal-burning Noise-whale, a collector
Twists a symphonic of wrench and groan
Under the gargling wail of fuel
As well as pistons, the reflection of The Tired.
They rest hovering topside, crouched
And struck by the whipping lash of colour
The rope wrenches into the horizontal,
Winching the Oxen toward the catch
Winching until nets rip in like horizontal pull
Surfacing up through murk with a feverish shine
And shifting away to naked frailty
That glory The Tired had began to behold.

The wind carries the soul
Toward a heart, it’s own
An apparition of anticipation
Toward the body, raggedly worn

The teller, not the told of
The forgotten, not the forgiven
Time-bleached and iron-hardened
The scourge and scorned

The wind carries the leaf
From its home, into the abyss
A melody of Frailty
From the porch, familiar and warm

The searched for, but unwanted
The secret lover, the obvious fool
Beach-beaten and vine-ripened
The burnt and enlightened

The wind carries me
From the darkness, into the bright
The waiting maiden, fair skinned beauty
Toward the light and a better life.

Rambling, clambering, bubbling brook of words
Runs quickly over the book
In front of you
You
You who are without unknowledge
Without sin
Without the knowledge to know
How to feel
Or too see
Or to untranslate into “me.”
How you talk in that way
The way that forces me to look away
Look away because if I don't I believe
That my arms will heave
And I will leave this chair
And heave a hand heavy into your hair-line
And find that you are possibly kind
And caring, and willing to share the words of cherish
And behold in the awe of the beauty of the words running
Rambling
Clambering out of your open head
And onto the burnt carpet.
And into my hand
Heaving with heavy hatred
At the sight of your human form.
But for now
Those words shall remain running and rambling
As I hold my clambering rage inside
And wait for you to finish
Waiting for the rest of the room to realize
How pompous you really are.
And I thank you
For if you weren’t rambling and bambling
Then how could I have written anything?