if i could
copy and paste
you into
my book
i would.

i'd lock you
into the pages
between my
covers

bookmarking
your sweetest
lines with my
red silk ribbon

i'd open you up
and read your
darkest secrets
in still of night
by candlelight

and under full
moon's glow, drip
my honey'd words
upon your tender
heart.

oh to copy
and paste
you into
my book

where our love
affair could bloom
in words.

the only place it ever could.


--bruised orange

You smell like ***
Between happy covers
Stained with our joy and love.

I love you so much
That when I kiss you
I’m smiling.
I put my hand
On the inside of your thigh
And brush accidentally
Against a trail of slime.
It’s like a snail
Crawled up your leg
And left a path
Of my sticky love tears.

You look at me and giggle
And soon like an STD
I catch it too
And we laugh like a pair of happy idiots
In each other’s arms.

The hay will have to sit
In the field,
A few days more,
Too bad,
It was just dry,
Ready to bale,
The clouds that sat,
Just halfway down the mountain,
Are now down 'round the house,
They've turned the pasture into
A perfect picture,
A cottony smooth mist,
It makes you want to stop,
Just to look,
And stay a bit,
Maybe watch the crows,
Before the sun burns it off.
We couldn't get this in August,
Just hard baked drought,
And doubts about the future.
Now a billion droplets
Breathe new life into
Everything green,
We've escaped nature's worst
For another year.
The streams are swollen,
Again.
Safe for trout ***.
In August,
We had to wonder,
Would those tiny rivulets
Come back?
Just when we had our
Deepest doubts,
The wand of nature
Said Yes,
The cycle was safe,
In her Faithful Breast.

Boorish words fall out of my mind across a page so white.
Is this what great poets accomplish, a drivel of the mind, a sludge that distends from me to you?
No, this is emotion wonderland, a through the rabbit hole tumble to the topsy turvy world of Ben.
There is no great poet; only man, no contemporary English genius in hiding within I; only me.
A curvy frame belies an interest in the obvious.
You’re distracted by the pretty girl, and her enormous ******* hang in your vision.
Maybe there is nothing beyond her *******; a seemingly infinite reality is etched on her soft flesh.  
A reality of many options, luminous statues roped off to the touch.
The bent frames of a social enterprise, thousands of years of thought piled in a heap, reach for the stars!  
What happens to the old ideas?
Where do my metaphors go to die?
I hope it’s not my imagination, littered with already lost initiative, now running from my searching eye.

My frantic worship of winter is bitter.
His ache was gone in a moment,
you use the knife and incubate a symphony.

We the ugly rust run mad
always beneath the Light
bared lust watching Love
drooling delicate shadows.

-

Your repulsive tongue has screamed
sweet languid moans,
my cry is bitter and essential
our garden is now a forest.