winter has crept from it's cathedral with it's blue loom of white sod
against black crows and over-coats. we awaken in our separate pause
and modify our crumpets with thin icing,
drizzled over moon faced scones -
as golden as your marmoset of port wine
and wrinkled wheels of cheese...
at a moment's notice.
you float through the open window where crescendo the crisp winds and the bacon fats
rendering in the musk of firewood, oaking the nose of the decanted day
the early hearth of heaven, now powder blushed and rustle thrum
with skylarks larking in the luminous icebox
of barely sunrise.
your eyes sparkle and my antlers score the aspen bark
on a lost acre of our thickening plot.

we love a lot.

The Neon chatter box
says lets all talk with the same tongue,
he said he was sorry for before,
his moustache quivered under this
sanguine strain.
Most of us are foxes
who glady forage through black sacks,
some of us sit bow legged
quintessence in a darkened room
and siphon others gloom away,
but there's no standard release clause
their eyes rock with the tide
until a printing press is sought
yet their Universal probity ignores
the jammy Neon chatter boxes duplicity
embossed as the stalwart he now wants plangent marching in step

I've slipped off and I've flipped off (my heart)
I've gotten lost and stayed in the trees with a fire.
                                          (reflecting in my eyes)
A small torch in my hand; a dancing liar.
Here we go again: a pulling on my mind's feet.
A loose foothold. A loose willpower.
That **** book about a wallflower,
nostalgia brain, going insane. (quite literally)
I've got some shaky hands but a sealed mouth.
The old soul is a cold soul headed south.
This trip will be a bourbon; properly aged.
No one knows. No one knows. Know one that knows.
That was the night everything changed.

the size of you now from way back here my dear
you may not know but let me tell you... how you fill the pavilions with your ether whiskers
and your sumptuous mask. the all night habit of your ring finger's habit.
the flinch of your dashing rabbits.
you might be breathing something from monte carlo.
but your flames flamingo. yooouuuu don't even know the half... but the whole thing reeks of pablum
and bamboo shoots. illustrious pulp. you are not the virtue that you want
as much the virtue that you lack. the size of you now
from way back here, is merely the reticule of god's ******
with the rubber-room bullets and the nice lighting.
you have wind chimes in your wrinkles again.
are you that much gone from nod
as you might seem steam
on a roof of a low owl
atop giant
mouse ?

At Nineteen Miles An Hour, Smoking On A Train

chugging along the lilacs of twilight in the plasma darkening of a stretch
we fetch the improbable road to our destination. we give a ****. but the birds are listening.
and that might lead to luggage. so much, you might sweep the light fantastic
into army hats. you might march a sustained coup on your hopeless epiphanies.
at nineteen miles an hour, on a train... you see your god.
are you too light to darken the right words
to a happy demise?

are your zeroes at odds?