Lurking, like a petal on a flower,
Ready to drop
Not caring where

Some city, made for dreamers
Steel an concrete gleaming
A toxic stew of greed and lust
Made pretty by vanity

Hurtled profane visions
Entering into the empty heads of souls
Reflecting eyeless darkness
Back into the watery tears of night

Into this reckless exaltation
Musts the aroma of caprice
Muddled by the flavor of abandoned folly
Reclaimed by patient stirring.

Given over, so that it-that-is
can begin anew.
Come, come,
your shallow breathing knows
a larger sea is ready for you
to bear you up
into places fresh, and green

You made like your empty places
still hurt
and your full places
had a mind of its own
herding your thoughts
into closed traps
with doors that are painted shut

There you lived.
within-inside-of each pebble you counted
that you lifted up to the sky,
catching an uncountable gleam
You let each little gleam pile up, uncounted
watching out of your eye at a marvel
that could not yet hold your weight.

Is this a sink for the vegetation of your mind, and heart?
A cool prospecting zone, with rocks piled upon rocks?
Your heart is soft and fiery
making tender advances wither
and soft growing things pause, before circling for a closer look.

*Turn and go: no; Stay.

Be this way, and more.
Swampy, water-logged, limp with decayed expectation.
There, bright pink fire still lurked in handsome cheeks
rumpled by a cloying scowl.
hurt dreams, paraded before her eyes; like sailors on a slave block, being whipped until they beg to go for home: doing anything for the cool mercy, of a fresh breeze flickering a half-hour above decks.
Her rummaged lines, of cloth making a fan over her arms
discouraged a sense of completion, being only a pilgrim, passing through
waiting for the strength for things to matter again.

*impulses. petty, vain
make my solid love
a thing that leaves me empty
circling my arms around
a laughing tree

waters lick my fingers
like ginger hearts that squeeze juice
burning the hairs on my knuckles
watching me rumple, and pout.

Took me a small fortune
that I spent on women and beer
for me to wander until I could no longer wander
that is why I wait for you here.
For the land
with the spirit
taken by life
here with the light that is golden

Most days
this day
in this hour
when I began
as if I could always begin
noting the hurt
feeling the roar
displaying the angst
making it go away in a flash

This life
is living for
a purpose true
unmet, only glimpsed
infuriating memories
sweet in their tidy excellence
wrapped up with the care
of someone who knows how to be loved

Now I feel my body
aching my pains into the ground
feeling that I am found, with my merit intact
burdened with strange feelings
that dictate caution and call out little squeaks of
delicate joy.

who lives for this?
is pleasure made as an escape from pain?
when pain is universal
the desires of the spirit all flow into the heart of silence

bring your troubles.
they are familiar with me. I watch them tenderly, as if they are not yours, and neither my own.

The ringing silence
watches the troubles
looking over an invisible mountain
that has no base.
Pained paint, riddled with lard
fatty droppings, rippling so close
my cheeky toes, so fresh and healthy
my eyes, smelling stink, craving water

Who cried tears of mud, I said
i wanted no-one to answer
their encrusted screams, I scraped off their faces
revealing clean stubble and erotic peach fuzz.

no pale fingernails greet me
only scabby man claws
this is my ache, my inheritance
the gorge I have worked past my jaws.

Could you remember me, as innocent and fresh?
does the monster of my greyed-out heart beat in your tender bosom?
if there was something about me that was once more than cold
maybe that something can keep waiting, until I find it.
In response to Destructive idealism... By avalon.
Booming hills and long valleys
Made of pine and elder fur.
Richer than cats with bells on each paw
holding close to streams and steep rills
In each quiet place, behold a meadow-dell
there in sweet holiness dark skies breathe fragrant
O the made men of each season
lying in grass ready to be chewed into cud
delivering sparking stones into the secrets of mines
fading out with the shout of wild boar
and grunt of wandering oxen.
in prolog descent begins
finding fancy in unremarkable friends
there we chortle, finding a muse
each toe-touch, each tap-gurtle
making us choose

Dark humours abate
mild friendship begins
hours contemplate
the meaning of hands

Fulsome gladness
evokes reason and charm
Uncertain round-aboutness
does tend to disarm

So there we do sit
in our unremarkable selves
remarking on anyone and everyone
with the handy courage of elves

Oh! this winsome contemplation
makes each hour grow strong
finding its touch
good-willed by friends who belong.

Nasty brightness
hurtles in the rear
awakening mild creatures
that divert our cheer

Soaked so, do we
each in our own thrall
find our delighted vigor
with each footfall

Wild totems
fall about like a trance
our wiles are wilder
our feet stand wide, and dance.
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