I felt you kiss the edges
of my gypsy soul last night.
You laid aside my armour
So rusty, yet so bright.

All the poets in all the bars
hung by Morganna's violet hair
casting ideals towards the stars
wept when they landed elswhere.

I let you take the diamond
from between my broken teeth;
and laid the hunter to rest
tonight never to repeat.

Our bodies told a story
full of puns and lifeless caricatures,
for the people we once were
that lived within this parchment
of our long forgotten dreams.

Speak slow
with savoured words
these soft yearnings.

Speak soft
of things never spoken.
For words scare
the ibis and carrion crow
which circle and caw
above this simple bed.

Where we lie simply, and roll simply
amongst the long curling legs
that rise above like ivory eyed pedestals
of things beautiful and true.

And yet, this simple bed
will not hold these simple bodies-
beautiful and broken.
And the sanctity of words unspoken
held us by it's token
as we passed into the night
with all we left unspoken.

So speak slow
As we pass into the night.
So speak soft
Under moon burnt light-
But speak! Ye poets,
Ye swine, Ye ****!
Speak and be heard
before the burning sun
with voice, and pen
and scorching scent!
Or suffer the sleep
and endless repent.

I see the recollection
of a thousand and one memories
in the faces of strangers.

It is written
in the burnt out shellac
that write's the gospel
called ideal.

Upon all the waifs
that wail
on wainscotted walls
is visible a weary shade -
A woe begotten word.
That same ink
that wrote the scar
on a thousand and one faces.

It shone to eyes
of the right size
calibrated to the light
by a snowflake.

And once seen
O misbegotten dream!
Hours of amphetamine rooftops
under golden stars.
Mornings alight
with the free realm of jazz
which floats on hazy gaze
that constitute fields
of a thousand and one degrees.

Now not seen.

And is it carved
in the sweaty freedom
of a drunk?
Constellating crystal beads
pour to eyes
gray and sunk
with the wisdom of a prince.
With the stench of a skunk.

Brace yourself
for the wind does come
that marries wind
of heart and mind.

And behind it all
you see it now;
in the thousand and one faces
of the free
the bold
the meek
the drunk
the lost.

The recollection
of a thousand and one memories.

Shall we count the hours
you rimmed in gold?
Awash in wine not sweet but sour;
no warmth shall be brought
to this day ever cold.

In your heart I sense a loveless pyre,
burning bright in endless night;
No climbing sparks leap up these walls
No constant lover will grace these halls.

For you, oh shade!
Oh graceless within your ***
Now seek to drown;
I, within your waves of play
And no such 'write
will come to say.

Within your head, your heart and artless mind;
Nought but a mirror grows.
Nought but darkness holds.
And in that glass of strange design
You hold your fate,
but never mine.

We pass neath the arms of shadow,
and autumns gaze turned away.
With the air filled thick a promise of winter
Layed true by the albino commissaries
that float listless abroad.
Ranks in gray/blue/white.

Slow through pass they are revealed!
Marched immeasurable in form-
By pearly hand of Christmas Kings.

Whilst low round the cavern pass
Forked lightning roared all round us!
Forked lightning soared all round us!
Under heat of wastrel march.

And we all flashed out blackened blades!
flanked by ancient everglades!
Defeat! Defeat all cold and shade!
Slit and slash their marching grade!
Impossible was their victory made!

Soon we sprouted victory wreaths,
Of strange and seeming wonderwood.
For silence hath taken
winters pearly rings.
And death hath taken
their princely king.

She is silver-nitrate and coal.
An Egon Schiele painting
stretched on dream
and sullen sparking glances
tipped in gold.

It is starlight, burnt through a velvet field
that chains me here.
It is honey and hot wine
that haunts my sleep,
by the onomatopoeia
of obsession.

With a lunar caustic kiss
she hexed me.
Woven in her six-sided circle
those rubies in the
hollow of her neck
and fingers that shimmer
like ice.

The Sphinx of Eros.

That heathen curl.
Smoke to hide the ivory!
Spoke to lock the memory!
Caught in click clack shutters
by the silver foaming pond.
Froth from the chambers of
ebony rough hewn hearts.

O starlight!
That raptures me hungry
for bloodsoaked lips
red as fury!

And I sang;
O lord & commoner, I sang!
To the weepings of a sombre, sudden,
stinging violin,
in empty vinyl crackle
from music soaked in paint,
with a voice
like burning velvet.

I coiled around  your coast
and gazed at the foreign shore.
The breakers, they did break
and the sirens they did call
to the clipper upon that fallen, foreign shore.

Were we sailors then, you and i?
Or were we shipwrecked?
I think we were shipwrecked.
The mast lay rotting in the waves.
Rope and sail- strewn as a discarded scalp
Upon that foreign shore.

I know the day of leave,
As i know that sirens call.
And I felt the breakers
and the hidden stones that rose as black teeth round your coast.
The wind pulled forth and we did nought to stop the pull.
And crashed upon your fallen shore.

Now we are castaways;
outcasts upon this isle.
Now we are foreigners
on this foreign shore.