Her nail polish sparks
She’s dripping makeup tonight
Slow kiss conducting

My golden girlfriend
A lioness in the sunlight
She brings me
While melting kisses still shine on my lips
Elegant waterfall hair
Blonde as a daydream dreaming yellow mares
Liking her a sunflower crown becomes new religion
She introduced the sun to me
In the flamboyant light of her style and being
Myself, already a worshipper
As I’m sure she’s princess of the wild tribes
Now they’re passions for the sunlight shades
Slow spinning with blonde desire towards the
casual dance of new attraction
Sagittarius and Leo running together ignite
the day with spontaneous heat
Spark of tender amber in the eyes
Turns to burning embraces

let’s imagine summer girls in golden clothes
o how many of them dressed up like soft fires!
Black streets will melt under a trace of warm steps
While passersby offer sun-buttons and light-drenched smiles

Today, in lovely flames, many females now flooded
Celebrating in slow strides, the yellow-dances
Wandering aimlessly with wild winds in their hair,
A choir of sunbeams off their tongues flash the air
While, singing they begin a most tranquil street-fair

My rebel heart style is with her
Like the rings that hug her pale-white modern fingers
She speaks an independent light-blue flare
A caring intelligence with personality rare

Her black sweater rip and so her smooth shoulders slip
Into the air where my senses flip
A design for soft plans on her neck
And soon levitate toward my favorite lips

The place where one spends afternoons counseling a beguiled village on the depravity of their daydreams, a slow porcelain horse is trapped in its own celebratory air on the moment of its leap, over a fountain whose waters drench the rider’s proud eyes, and view of the whole spectacle.

Secret worship in the eyelashes
Empty mirrors those eyes?
Or are they full of beauty and personal religion?
A heart that beats fast religion for the visual
Slow explosion
Glamour rain

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.

It is simply now a choice to feel naked. She feels it’s appropriate now to undress for the public which will soon follow her lead. Into the night, they will tear apart the conventional moral creed with ritual dance steps resembling tiger speeds!

All of this dreaming came first with a silent knock upon the glass. At least one of the girls had pretended to. Three redheads pressed each other’s bodies up in the corner, huddling as if they were some team about to spring their paws across some morality clause.

Still outside the door they slid around each other in the corners, anxious to release the chaos that would glisten all around the patron flesh, in beautiful lines of heat leaving sweat-tattoos.

Arms wrapped around each other in the cool green grass
A slow gallop picks up speed
A parade of sunlight combusting yellow sparks
Across the plain run the yellow mares
Procession of flashes light up our faces
My girlfriend smiles and wets her lips in the sun
I on my way to becoming prince of golden dreams
Drown my face in the sunshine of her being
She gets up and lets fall a thousand golden flakes
Shake off slowly all that kissing
In the tender brightness of our storm
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
In our golden embrace
We notice our possible future
Ahead of us
A stream of sunlight

The wild gallop of golden desire
A chance to mount the yellow mares

© Matthew Goff

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.

© Matthew Goff

Driving through the grey
A cloudy day warrior
Ordinary kings

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

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

She’s woken by blue candy kisses
Like a cluster of stars falling
From a boy
Upon her face
The constellation of a crush

As she gets up
A thousand blue ponies slide from her rain-water hair
Before disappearing in the distance
Young children mount them tackling flowers

She kisses him
And lets slide the sky-blue of the day from her lips
His arms fall like water around her body
As she turns, racing to make friends with
The twinkling blue of a butterfly’s eye

There used to be a patio of
Splendid greens
A beautiful afternoon fragrant
In a glass of charming fluid
We wondered how the fruit of
Tasteless shadows could scream
An unforgettable song
We watched a blonde cackle
Reform the faith of ****** stars
From a roof-top, wondering
If we were wrong

Gigantic web of ceremonies
Capture all intrusions entering
This historic yard, except the
Murderer of this yellow wedding
He has asked to be here
And we have thus allowed
This person to behave under
The mark of a crescent-bedfellow

The moon his lover is drenched
In proud criminal glaze of evenings
And we have said our last good-byes

Cars dashing princess
Ask her a sunrise question
A golden answer

O pure Sagittarius in light-blue dressed
Your outfit hugs kindly those delicate *******:
water-flowers the moon sprinkled down on your chest
On a sky-pillow your neck how gently it rests

Cloud of porcelain-white asleep in your perfume
The life you breathe into it a slumberous tune
Disrupts a cluster of stars happily may they resume
a ring of memories alive and with us soon

© Matthew Goff

Let’s begin with the forestry of intellect while pitching the mad tents!

Prostitutes walk the street
And clash with white birds in tropical flight
Does this lend a purity to their gutter blood?
Or are they saints in corrupt and glamorous disguises?
The wind must speak their true names
Velvet panthers in the moist heat
Heavy curtain of ***
Falls upon the town in a warm wave
Surfers slowly lay their heads back
And are baptized by their girlfriends in the ocean

© Matthew Goff

My golden girlfriend
A lioness in the sunlight
She brings me
While melting kisses still shine on my lips
Elegant waterfall hair
Blonde as a daydream dreaming yellow mares
Liking her a sunflower crown becomes new religion
She introduced the sun to me
In the flamboyant light of her style and being
Myself, already a worshipper
As I’m sure she’s princess of the wild tribes
Now they’re passions for the sunlight shades
Slow spinning with blonde desire towards the
casual dance of new attraction
Sagittarius and Leo running together ignite
the day with spontaneous heat
Spark of tender amber in the eyes
Turns to burning embraces

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Her nail polish sparks
She’s dripping makeup tonight
Slow kiss conducting

Streaked by the hours of moonlight
She sweats upon a rooftop cradle
A slow showering of heated liberation
As I swing along the fragile nesting of ivory branches
Stretched under the magnificence of her stability

And let her mouth, that soft vessel
Divide the gentle tide with a smile
That casts upon the crest of evening water
Two halves of a seashell

And let our embrace, soften the cool air
That parades around us, shedding secrets from our hair
And let me hold that hand that trembles
When the evening undresses us
With a yellow wink

Take yourself back to soft night-air perfumed necks. Once again, allow your thoughts to sculpt a hand of past flesh and stroke the palm of her history with you. O gentle jack-of-hearts backrub lover, you must dance the steps your true soul choreographs for you.

Let’s put an end to future ills with patience for this all too familiar unique smile of affairs. Where are you true love of mine a second time?

With gentle paws upon your heart landscape. The day must allow your conscience to paint like a fox. To love like brunette blades of hair reveal emotion. O precious style of moonlight lights up a secret drama.

I dreamed away impossibilities! I wanted these circumstances to reveal themselves with everything that is wet about secrecy…

It began somewhere in the distance, amidst the hidden clamor of those already engaged in ****** flight! Some fair-skinned legs in night-drapery began to slowly spread open for us, encouraging my thoughts with softly white-winged smiles, flying out from under the treasured curves of playful thighs.

I took heed with not as much ease as one might speed…

© Matthew Goff

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

I walk by, and never hear the word “***” uttered.
I walk by, and am surprised when people are polite.
I walk by, and people are moving too fast.
I walk by, and see people frowning in the rain.
I walk by, and see a crown of realization.
I walk by, and see a ritual of snow.

© Matthew Goff

Feel her sea costume
And she wraps herself with waves
Her mermaid tattoo

She pours perfume through the waves
And gets ready for her sea-date
Rebels against her parent’s teenage warning
Crash of youth in the ocean
No one sees the splashing
And kissing in the sea

Do you know why it was so humid today?

Because while you were asleep, I woke up early this morning—to greet the dawn fully aroused. I walked out into the garden and extended a confident hand to the sun, pulling her down softly upon the luxurious folds of a bed built out of air. I gave her a thousand smiles with warm, visiting heartbeats.

Then, slowly pulled her legs over my shoulders with the grace of sunlight dreaming.

Then, I began to wet the blonde forest with an anxious tongue, melting her voluptuous trees, whose shapes remind me of young females ******* bedroom worlds, rounded smooth and with ease.

That’s why the sun, that luscious bridesmaid of a girl, who slipped her legs into yellow stockings, could not stop sweating!

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

After having spoken awhile of the predatory smiles that wake her from the bottom of a cup in porcelain sleep, the polite guests that convinced her that they too be included in the tea games, played by a thousand gold lions that prance upon the wooden clocks in her dreams, ripping them to pieces and having let bled a spill of mechanical works with insane parts, furiously looking for the history in which they will piece themselves back together, I once again fell under the spell of this profession, trained in breaking glass.

Tip-Toe cross the street
Dangerous cars moving fast
Weather full of storms

There used to be a patio of
Splendid greens
A beautiful afternoon fragrant
In a glass of charming fluid
We wondered how the fruit of
Tasteless shadows could scream
An unforgettable song
We watched a blonde cackle
Reform the faith of ****** stars
From a roof-top, wondering
If we were wrong

Gigantic web of ceremonies
Capture all intrusions entering
This historic yard, except the
Murderer of this yellow wedding
He has asked to be here
And we have thus allowed
This person to behave under
The mark of a crescent-bedfellow

The moon his lover is drenched
In proud criminal glaze of evenings
And we have said our last good-byes

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

© Matthew Goff

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.

She still speaks to me in ways familiar but with her glance sends over the light weapon of our memory in love. There are many sparklings in my head which have for themselves one name and her special touch alone. The movement in our kissing slides a satin wave from our lips. Oh sacred style of missing her lowers my palm collecting icicle-heart drips.

Feather-weight kisses he always misses with equally soft wishes for them it’s not fictitious.

As I lay back against her chest
Her arms around me hug the rest
Like bedside angels do their best
To calm the winds now laid to rest.

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.

The moments are lovely here as I approach her awaiting smile, glistening from just having said everything in blissful glances.

It is simply now a choice to feel naked. She feels it’s appropriate now to undress for the public which will soon follow her lead. Into the night, they will tear apart the conventional moral creed with ritual dance steps resembling tiger speeds!

© Matthew Goff

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

Liquid churches you might say
float along the ocean
We who throw parties in the sea-spray
are known for our fluid devotion

Pink walls outline the hormonal oceans
To peel back the secrets of wet
flesh against swimming pool corners
through waves of swelling libido
that crack the senses against the reefs of water-love

I have given my senses full range along the ****** planes…

I am the prince of voyeurs, who favors an elegant hand
with female grace on my favorite space of sacred fingers
that come down with soft, sliding strokes on the phallus of day
******* sacred fluid, that spells out and signs
invitations on the silk sheets of evening
anxious to fold itself into letters of perfumed language
which absorb the night of its juices
leaving an imagination soaking wet

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
© Matthew Goff

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
Her limber body bent
Her waist hugged by voluptuous shadows
She almost dangles
Like *** the play of kittens clawing invisible velvet lovers
With one arm raised
Held within a hand of indifference to everything else
That which she imagines for herself and her beloved

Let beauty influence the architecture of thought

My rebel heart style is with her
Like the rings that hug her pale-white modern fingers
She speaks an independent light-blue flare
A caring intelligence with personality rare

Her black sweater rip and so her smooth shoulders slip
Into the air where my senses flip
A design for soft plans on her neck
And soon levitate toward my favorite lips

A woman, whose disguise is the sunlight of a charming heritage born unto her with contagious rhythms, sees in the sidewalk a reflection of not only her, but her influence in the showering of comets that strike, under the first breaths of timid boys, an unexpected hour of propeller anxiety, that comes to them like the everyday ambush of mornings.

A sky invades itself the way lampshades collapse on their elegant red bulbs.
Lovely antique fabrics wrap themselves around heat-waves copulating with light.
The color of blood melts down a rose petal in celestial gardens.
A certain shade of burgundy supports a flower dive!
Liquid falls into the curtain folds of this cranberry swaying pageantry.

A sky invades itself the way lampshades collapse on their elegant red bulbs.
Lovely antique fabrics wrap themselves around heat-waves copulating with light.
The color of blood melts down a rose petal in celestial gardens.
A certain shade of burgundy supports a flower dive!
Liquid falls into the curtain folds of this cranberry swaying pageantry.

Let beauty influence the architecture of thought

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.

Butterflies fly through her hair
Carrying letters from the sky
Pretty language let the stars compete
©

Sick girlfriend
Do your best
Talk of love
A witness to the rest

Rudeness follows
Polite maneuvers
Do your best
Sickness grows
As love will grow

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.