What you doin' there, Left-eye?

seems you got me confused with somebody else.
standing there ****-lacked with surance
like a stand,
a bird-tooth,
a shelf.

your minory flagrance the runge-jakes,
your fiery holes for birth.

I'm happy enough in the meaningless,
a taxi, directless and first.

I doubt in the walls like a showdown.
I drink the saloon like it's fate.
I'll shave all the mis-hands from struggle,
and pretend I can wake before eight.

you wither the real when it's comfy.
you dote on the fair like a lake.


The wrestling season is over.

We won out,

                                      the Golden Mistake.

the fostry boys and clair-n-tine hills
will wrest away their fears
like marcks-alarns and floaty badge
and puffer-nickel stills.

they'll bother beat with ever chills
and lime-lack in the surf.
I'll wait for time appronaheed,
I'll ferret out the mirth.

you'll not buy wick-ends in their fall
nor taste their merton soot,
you'll waste your fully throtton ball
and save your lamest foot.

as they're the childs of never-been,
the cartwheels at street and rue,
unghost their face as your beating slows,
these boys, to res-cue you.

this won't be re-written,
though it'll be felt fair enough.

it'll hardly last at all,
with luck, it'll go down rough.

the paint, I'll waste on chippers,
the words, I'll waste on time.
the love, I'll serve with clippers,
my whiskey will serve your wine.

I'll knot my hands with good-ends,

"dream fingers, of skin, and spine"

what switch might lay above me,
that I would write forever?

you're no stranger than me.

I'll convolute as long as I see,
with the sea- a shining quarter.

I'm in Heaven, now.
With words.


Don't bother searching,

      we'll all drift well enough,

and breathe,


             and breathe be-yond.

I shouldn't drink.

You become




love's *******.

drink to this, lipless,
"'rotten' isn't what you think",
you tarry the borders in white.

you glisten like factory,
you tremble like gold,
you're edging the ready to fight.

your countenance silver,
your wrangle-send wet,
my finger, your jawline, the light.

I miss what you were.
  You forget who you are.

        Euclidean.
                          
               Forgiven.

  And right.

feathery coontscounce on
the puck for playing.
a lavender make-up for rest.

the lack that you love
isn't empty bar-taking,
you fever the fount as it's bent.

you're lucky, you're karma,
you are what you're clinging,
you're love as it's breaking

you're Stress