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S E L Jul 2016
I fed an orange today and got butter.
Dreaming a quiet hum and they are gone
miscreants and perpetrators
only later, some see how it goes.
A saucer ******* them up in a shaft of cold light
extract memories on far off meteors
and drone on:
how 'bout a kiss?

Old liberties absconded and voices eschewed
don't dare grow your own field
crush the eggs
drain to soil, fresh milk
just a lesson to show who's not been good follower:
can we kiss now?

Sad bad wave, a bad wave
breeding crooked hands and sarcastic crooks
holding onto the last flanges
unravelling free forces
knifing another rogue mutt afresh:
quit asking again.

Crush our confidence, like eggs.
Drain away care through
the blood of (our) young.
S E L Jan 2016

Come, child.
Let me brush flakes against your jacket
make you curl inward like a leaf -- insulated.
Dachshund, a study in fidelity
walks along the dusky road, quiet curving.
Light falls in the doorway
and drowsy become your eyes
the sun is tired, soon to dip.

Slip not

Swear to make no promises in summer.
When those clouds change and wisp away
as the words slip out, sentences ******
to the floor, like change from a purse.
Slip not in the change.
Toes in the sand, and rough skin rides off.
Old clauses and old books, much like
calluses chafing in delayed surf.


Do we die a bit each time we sleep
or saunter spots we daren't when awake?
There's more than one season of sand running through my fingers
and I'm sometimes not so sure what gems I've caught
or lost
upon clutching closed, so
my clenched fist draws solid white.


There's never any rhyme or reason
whichever may be the season.
Wonder who slid down that crevasse
frozen in pain and alone, preserved.
Grab that hat, tuck away sad songs
and inhale this new hue
a blue you used to dream of, long snail's paces back
of blossoms (and thoughts)
like butter -- rich, full, creamy things.


The penny drops.
You didn't hear.
Never do.
You may well throw accolades on me densely
before the world, but in the grip of this dance
tiers come forth and I slip rapidly ten levels, down.
Down the ladder, with heart decidedly heavier than its climb up.
Perhaps, when all the letters fly in the breeze
the kites will turn the right way round
and you taste salt as you lick onto your tongue
a sleeping storm.

Because I thought we could talk about it, and
in the flurry of beehive
Better late for some, if not all.........
S E L Nov 2015

Odd, the need to parade the best. Much like
putting on show all the biggest hardons.
For all to see.
The floppies watch from the sidelines, like stalkers.
They know theirs have better toys later
to ride out old storms.

put it in a letter

So says the very sinner, letting the offended leave.
Hail false proclamations and now the poor blob
runs far away.
Crying for the flat tree to watch over
royal bratlings.

See now, near a full year.
You hold your fort, who knows how, really.
Grant the day you quill a line
and slant smiles again, like
red trails on snow.
S E L Jun 2015
You got a good cow?
Yeah, this one's got enough shy
Won't overextend her *** onto your tongue.
But she's ready to express.

They killed the donkey
who did the donkey work
now the flood cannot be stemmed
too bad the horse is so ill equipped
the donkey work to collapse to plan B:
complacency is asking for it.

The farmer's wife keeps the trough filled
Her family all feed there, friend too
Hungry *******
She somehow feeds another
via the backdoor.

The rooms all have this red glow
The men degrade themselves
A candle drips hot wax, moaning
Black leather and tasseled whips
Keeping the tapeworm alive.

The visionary talks of truth, talks his head off
of hidden things and backstage agenda
There's now a fourth world status
in the back alleys of overcrowded slums
all overdosed on honeyed impressions.

High castles for preachers and glass houses for the rest
Some contend with deliberate detours to escape
dark dreamers in once rustic countryside towns.

Behold the executioner, removes the mask
The plot unravels, poor boy blade in gums
Coerced to perform things, ends in *****
Head in the desert; one jolt and jump away.
S E L Jan 2015
buckle to the times
The young man finds a long chapter ended, awaits another
Knowing the wind blasts aught of charity
Ennui cavorts random and alienates the helper
Many trapped in posts akin to sinking, heavy blocks
Till one dash of black wave must destroy the stagnant water pool.

bye, little bird
Wish well her of shy mind on this strange and hasty trip
To impress a panel to make an odyssey out of learning
Suture memory with anticipated creme de menthes
And liars fall flat, who faltered never 'fessed
Upon big, iron wing you fly--bye, little bird.

Like a Dutch fan with the top of russet, critic to the hug
She comes from so far to meet the southern sky
A little late, but always arriving in white: trio on the green
Sturdy bedrock steadfast in the spiraling crash; salt on lips
In the clasp of beach blues, the sun shines hard.

Grownup offspring do move on, slips of life
Some attend not rushed meteors; start living.
S E L Jan 2015
The grind

Facing the wall again, deep awkward and painful staring at the floor
Tittering a laugh, cruelty unintended but the long grind of waiting
The stucco church, solid near the bulk shop
He started earlier than the rest and they never could catch up
He left earlier as well.

Where to turn?

Well elided turns makes a lazy talker, yes m'am, no sir
Carry over from prior months, a horror thick with worry
Fish swim no more here, Auriole has been called home
And the child she took from autistic streets rakes thoughts together
Rugged ones hardly expected success from the slower one
Well, surprise.

Baking rays, in the shade we climb
The spider said to the vine: how art the tidings there?
Be told unlike, the searcher's dream wilts slow in a postbox
The chart burns, and discrepancy marches again.
S E L Dec 2014

When did buildings decide to tower so high?
perhaps history told truth, civilizations need
to be toppled by forces calamitous
the machine chews on; sly, colossal horror
humanity outstripped.


I try to keep my eyes open, but I'm so tired
there's no quiet spot left
Just want to rest my candle, but it blows out; still
perhaps, when that lea calls one day
I can rest a bit: no more fencing.

In the silence**

You beckon attention with slanted diffidence
but indifference puts paid to embraces advancing less.

They come to you, insidious and a kind of shunning occurs
which numbskull holds the bag of water over your convictions?

In the silence of your perambulation, despite bidding a quiet tongue,
the hissing from the charnel nearby escaped you; and it was dark.
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