I need to turn these days
into attractive dust

We can manage a dull afternoon
When punished lilies
Imitate the army of rebel waters
Sneaking away on tiptoe
From an empire of lawful soil

Watchful of flood signals
We will wait for a jealous wasp
To peel back the detonators
For springboard demolitions
Fancied on limp petals

While soldiers of nectar’s plight
Talk over plans with bees
We see an enemy of discreet magnitude
Inside us, a showering of infernal degrees
Our hearts soaked in criminal teas

I could appreciate her today. I had been watching those golden gestures compliment the frame of elegant houses. And for moments alone on a reflective sidewalk, I had forgotten what my face looked like. Yes, she was a whistler of pastel importance. A type of language only significant when the island pores of sensitive humans bleed open shamelessly and without counsel for their tears. The afternoons have a style all to their own, and I remember glass.

As I marched into the kitchen with a flamboyant step, a cigarette held high in hand, and the glow of the pinnacle ash, a replacement for a beacon illuminating a quietness trailing through the dark air, I sensed a cooling of sweet thunder, a pale congregation quickly lapsed into nervous rapture. A place where one may glide upon the icy sheets of innocent malfunction, onto a sweaty platform, which springs a guest into the ****** air and whose peers gaze excitedly at the spectacle.

under the first breaths of timid boys, an unexpected hour of propeller anxiety, that comes to them like the everyday ambush of mornings.

Inside the day, convulsions sweep me within the circular tide, whose currents endlessly root themselves along the shores of disappointing sentiments. Abandoning a singular precision, in using reverie with a blade to carve out the jewels with splendid contour, fashioned after the exquisite role of the past, I have failed to attract the elegant throats around which I stalk the beautiful endlessly.

Along these village windows hang sour fruit of autumn’s slumber, we keep a tinsel memory on a weather vane.

I know of pink corners in the mind: Forest of sweet perfumes, whose travelers lend a hand to the ******* of sunset and its nervous mapping of amateur stars. There is a moment’s history in the certainty of salivating worlds: An odyssey for lovers who play cards at night and whose ideas for strategic foreplay are used like stilts. Hovering over a table, soaked with invisible juices, they are found flirting with each other’s secret personalities—heirs to the hormonal vibration of wet thoughts.

I am part of a secret race of bedfellows who, while draped in the rose linen of sleep

Every night I lay into a pink sleep, which is the secrecy of her arm’s love for me. There is a solace for me in her eyes… if only I could live in their reflections forever! A landscape of exploding glass-works, that trickle wet stories down her beloved face. Into my dreams, they will fire an inscription of dazzling intimacies, in soft-blue storms of light. I want to run away with her down private roads, that glisten with the unrest of heartbeats.

Once again moving toward the sunlight of her speech

To taste the road
Flavor of freedom
My appetite for you is consistent
To walk through life as a traveler
Is the way I enjoy it most
Destination does not interest me
Only the excitement and adventure
The movement!
Passion of the road
My kisses are ready

To adopt ourselves
Those rough carvings through the air
But take for our integrity
The grace in the leopard’s stride

While all the while
Sink our velvet fangs
Into the feast of happiness

Nothing short of emphasizing jewels and love!
Every day the parade of all things wonderful

I get up as well and reach towards her
My arm brushes her neck causing fire sparks
In the friction of love
She rolls into me and we slow gaze at each other for a while

My girlfriend smiles and wets her lips in the sun

Slow change into the wild arms of sunlight
Leaves me exciting
While in her company our glowing faces
Like lions after loving
Leave golden fire traces

Now three o’clock in the precious afternoon of torn cotton strands
School lets out a riot of sapphire glitter
Some girl stripes her vanilla ice cream cone with azure breathing
On seeing this she faints like a toss of sprinkles

Some girl stripes her vanilla ice cream cone with azure breathing

She walks by wearing blue stockings in the rainy afternoon
Her youth is like a tender dream
She wears a pair of adolescent stars from her ears
All her boyfriends, when they speak, sound like cool rivers
In the sky-blue of the day
She smiles
The way lilac bushes crush petals into joy

Wave to me with delicate explosion fingertips

To pursue an unnatural passion
more sacred to me than any other life lived
Is an adventure
Hung over the palace of desire like a dancer
Head thrown back
Like the slow flash of a jewel

A hunger for each other in the sweet winds
often blows a feather-blade against the skin
While glances shine off our bodies like
soft whips in the heart of sin

I love your licentious mouth
in waves of honesty spilling diamonds
An open language without shame
While embarrassing truths bleed out the games:

False arena in which we prey
upon another’s confusion, confusing the sane and
insane jewel of our wonder?

Above all let’s escort desire into loving waters
Our prayers will suffice among the waves
Celebrating in kisses our gentle revolt
Putting faith in the tides and our wet embrace

There are certain flowers
Pretty exquisite by your house
In your garden
Moonlight flowers
Lift their dancing slippers
Up from the soil
And like satin brushes
In these dazzled hours
Slowly paint your name in silver
Across tonight’s
Black and star-studded blouse

I breathe her in soft landscapes of airy music. To embrace her is to step into a castle made of blue fireworks. The scent of her neck sends me falling into the sea of lovely intoxicants. Her face is my favorite place to gaze at. She is the spectacle of any simple space.

Oh sacred style of missing her lowers my palm collecting icicle-heart drips.

Like a dark-blue angel I walk these streets asleep
Spilling water-thoughts for my sky-blue girlfriend
And with much ease splashing about a serious desire
To express the fluidity in my style of loving her

With her pale-white precious face of a place
Upon that space the moon introduced a sister-image
And in winter’s name with delicate snow-like fame
Dressed my lover’s hands in white cotton gloves

Once ago a time perfect and not only mine but
ours! A love designing sublime rebellion shined!
Days when our kisses held the potential for
avalanches do you recall a faint trembling sign?

Around our first garden we might file
With steps into sensual night agile
******* the shine of roses under evening
Clothes that wrap my heartbeat
Around her shape for awhile

anxious to fold itself into letters of perfumed language

with female grace on my favorite space of sacred fingers

And if I go down in flames, let me go down in a freedom reflecting upon your laws a ferocious flower, staining the moment that you gave birth to hypocrisy!

She ran like a savage toward the dawn
and waited for the fire-eclipse of
hours that will set ablaze the
many reflections, scattering in retreat
from the sun’s lofty danger

After having spoken awhile of the predatory smiles that wake her from the bottom of a cup in porcelain sleep...

I have failed to attract the elegant throats around which I stalk the beautiful endlessly.

I need to turn these days
into attractive dust
moments left abandoning
a selfish recreation
of secrets employing
their own role in
a landscape of desperate longing

like an angel whose inconsistent stability
will disappoint the
courts of categorical righteousness
tossing into the wind of verdicts
a rebel leaf that will
someday find its way
into the bedrooms of anxious jurors
showing once and for all
the impermanence of contentment

A common wetness
we might see, if
congress swept down
and licked the day
from nearby courts in trees
passing laws like winged prostitutes

Still, I can speak forever of worlds that soft sparks construct in a single kiss

I could appreciate her today. I had been watching those golden gestures compliment the frame of elegant houses. And for moments alone on a reflective sidewalk, I had forgotten what my face looked like. Yes, she was a whistler of pastel importance. A type of language only significant when the island pores of sensitive humans bleed open shamelessly and without counsel for their tears. The afternoons have a style all to their own, and I remember glass.

While on a beach, when she kissed me with the urgency of a sensitive poison, I could not help but scatter across the shore-lengths, the households of my heart, allowing room only for the remedy, I looked beyond her and forgot to make room for her smile, that went unnoticed fading as a shadow on my face.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?)

I once again fell under the spell of this profession, trained in breaking glass.

Inside the day, convulsions sweep me within the circular tide, whose currents endlessly root themselves along the shores of disappointing sentiments. Abandoning a singular precision, in using reverie with a blade to carve out the jewels with splendid contour, fashioned after the exquisite role of the past, I have failed to attract the elegant throats around which I stalk the beautiful endlessly.

Let Beauty influence the architecture of thought