Your cards are something that I desperately would like to fix
But my fingers are terribly stupid with those witty kinds of tricks

If I could, I would move the conceited constellations by degrees
After re-tossing all your bewitched leaves from your stupid teas

And I don’t know whether God just weighted your dice for kicks
But I wish I could be an ill sport and pick for you a face of any six

Because, although I can only see nonsense when you grin about your Belief,
It has moulded you into something perfect
and you deserve all there is of any relief.

A big, dark creature is the velvet landscape,
Perforated, so that tiny origins of luminescence
Freckle the breathing mountain’s gently sloped nape
And validates the distant city’s inner flamboyance.

The spine of wet tar, peppered with lustre,
Arcs the creature’s hunch of a back -
It summons me to the city’s sordid muster
To wean me of myself and to render its flak.

Instead, I think I’ll stay on the footed side of the nameless beast
Where I can soak in my tatters and be but my own, homeless priest.

Rouge, threaded dragons intertwined with oriental cherries
stain a mockery of silk spread across an unsteady table.
The lady, dwarfed by the redwood counter,
has skin stretched taught across the bones of her temples
only to softly be drooped and draped around her jowls.
She caught both my eyes in the little dips of her palms
but wrinkles worked onto her face are focused on receipts
and she is obviously oblivious that her hands, veined with sickly blue,
had struck me so hard that my head is thudding numbly.
Her nails are narrow and naturally long,
set into the spotted skin of her delicate fingers,
pulling at a memory bathed in red by the Chinese lanterns
hanging over me, the couple near the kitchen and tiny Mrs Huang.
Her hands gesture to me after calling my order twice  
and I walk towards them to take the sterile, plastic packet
so that I can finally exit to the alley and spit into the gutter
a touch of an image much too familiar
to only belong to Mrs Huang.

Your droopy eyes are palpable
But their leakage is  so very  liquid
That everything  from your frown and down
are only streaks of monochrome colours.

The shine from your bottom lip’s pout  
Is the sole indication of any protuberance
In between the  misty, misplaced  smudges
And  now I’ve gone and lost your focal point.

Your wilted close is tangible
But the reasoning is  so volatile
That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head
And whether *** just simply is a sin.

The parameters are but blurred
And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex
Among smears of arrogant  ignorance
And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point.

But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?

Light emanating from distant ***** of burning gas are intimidated from the children’s vision by the unruly, central licks fluffing about their little fire.
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The wind, streaming in from the warm side of the nearby ocean, picks up waves of genuine laughter and stunning, off-key voices.
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A bloodline of salt water curls the group into a circular haven where there is no need for corners to shadow defensive secrets.
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This is a time of absolute purity as the children’s minds drift to Never-never land and their hearts float within the red wine spilling into their mouths.
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They are all the happiest that they have ever been - on the seams of their spines, dallying until the currents will overtake them someday to bury their bodies at the bottom of the sea.
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Darkness thickly pastes the surrounding beach, longing for the fleecy little fire to cease its bravado so that the children can fall deeply into sleep.
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An Informal Bit of Nothing