from andalusian mountains, clomp girls in spidery shoes,
green velvet cloaks of winged-fluffy catkins
they all have plum heads, boys' chins

they are sour, studious in their hopscotch, stale of their billowy plaits—

their blushy moon swallows up cyclops eyes, red-centred
with crocodile feet glowing
like sailor stars

it’s a dare. i used to walk alone in central london.
daffodils bloomed in early spring;
a celebration of greenery and my desire for a neon bulb in a heather grey landscape.

strange,

there is a chance I’m lying

i have yet to recover my woolen heart
so desperate to seek city werewolves
and drink lemonade even if it’s always raining

i trade this taciturn muscle
for a drum that is manual, complete, and is alive
at every rockabilly show
(the singers say they’re from glasgow)
where my hips are pressed into my girlfriend’s
who drinks candied snow

and it’s strange,

how the sweat never leaves my brow
it lingers like the scent of potpourri
scattered on linoleum floors of generic bathrooms
with fuzzy toilet seats and powder pink tiles,

i am the one who never leaves
because i feel
all things that I shouldn’t feel;
a magnification of contagious sentiments
i am the last of my kind

i am a daffodil;
i lie, but only in my own reflection
and if spring time is patient, i shall float on the central city,
sighing and gasping at the other neon bulbs
that bloom before me,

strange

romola grey plays the glistery xylophone, one foot perched up on a potato mountain. in her arteries are gold rushes, klondike blood and moody oxygen. there is a particular grace to her madness: she used to be a seaweed keeper in carmel, long-finned pilot whale watcher in cork, hoary hair weaver in aix, newspaper delivery boy in columbus—she planted soulful cacophonies of watermelon kids who ice skated around her ankles.

romola grey hits the notes in vernacular solicitude, her fingers in antarctican winds, sloughs off half of the continent of dry skin. she looks for a wolf-boy who will listen to her calls, and her musical outpour of thunderous howls. but there is a nome-alaska body in her gut, corpuscled deep in her legs that trench a frozen pumpkin patch—for she is her own snowy witch with the back of a lion.

last night i dreamt in one hundred years—or maybe Tuesday
(something close to an emotional green) with my wings, green-wings, solid feet,
a ****** of crows, & bluebird things

a thing lives inside of me: a barnacle surface, broomy orange, windy love, a natural disaster—i think a hurricane

between lust and between gators, these origins of sweets from a great war, helium-ballooned a golden crown into my iron bear mussels

a november cliff forged a giant's causeway; crystals bestowed on the honeywells, a giant's love of separation—we are all a salmon skin,
a fiery light, limestone a buck and a half in our sour grasps

last night i dreamt i saw the giants
they roared like lions, crushed ghost shrimp with their feet and laid their moss
inside of my navel where i used to hide rivers

a thing lives inside of me: it crashes, wrinkles into a beast, grimaces an Oedipal song, plays Saturn games, it rings

They come in their hundreds of thousands,
floating magic carpets over our seas,
drowning, crawling up cruel sands,
bringing raw life, fuelling unease.

Salt for our wounds.
Tonic for our lethargies,
exorcizing the liturgy of myths.
Earth's orary grinds on.

I chase fairies
I follow the flicker
I hunt for glimmers
Of hope for love

I chase fairies
I chase the dreams
The impossibility
Of you loving me

I chase dragons
Dreams too large
So dangerous
They will roast me alive

I chase flying horses
Cats with wings
Elves and sprites
All impossible to be had

I chase fairies.
I chase after you,
After your love.
It's not the same.

But impossible enough
For me to catch
I might as well search
For other myths as well.

To Selene:
Rare a night, her gentle grace is not seen;
Live long torches, shamed, by her beauty’s gleam!
The Queen of night, my heart, she reigns supreme.
Floating high in deep, black lakes of my dreams,
Softly she gazes down past thick and thin;
Distant is her love as we skin to skin;
Fooled, my fervent stretch is never within,
Her affection for me, I’ll never win.
My heart, her misfortune can only reap
This last choice—wound us both more than my weep!
For her sympathy, my eternal sleep!
Now like me, may her woe forever keep.
By day miss her and dream of her by noon
Forever, rest in heart, my dear honey, moon