Screaming goes the midday sun
As voices move and footsteps chatter
Words of promise and love and romance rise
Onto the forest green of the world
Never did her skin match the surface of her crimson heart
Never did her eyes shine nor blind the people of her choosing
Never did her face seem to catch the sulken view of suitors
Nor did her voice capture the attention of the world
The world denied her and she denied the world
Yet her feet painted colours of their very own
Making a masterpiece
A line-by-line pattern of golden streaks of colours
That kept at their place
Kept where she stood
Aligned perfectly with the rise of the sun and the fall of the moon
According to the ones who saw
According to the ones who knew
And according to the ones who left
Misinterpretation never dignifies the righteousness of a canvas
Nor does it eliminate the mere reason for it’s purpose
A single streak can own much value,
While a collection could just be patterns;
A child’s word can be easily heard
But intertwining it around your mind is much harder.
She glazed her ground with the rainbows of her tips
Her voice not heard but her creations seen
And while an audience of words is not received
The birds of heaven don’t forget.
Simply a supernumerary & spurious Rimbaud,
unless Dark Cow is my Surelay Verlainetime!
A lazing lady's leylumps of sheer lait
leadtheway thru the laybyrinth
to a rainbowed layby.
When the highrises of my hirepurchase homelands
are overtyned by the bailiff brine,
when tigh hides be waterflogged
by Milton Glacier's perished ice, lost
to the apocadrips that transfoam upon a trickling
upsurge into juggernaut suds,
then my Dark Cow, I'll be yr
Arthur Rowboat, Arthur Roambuoy, Arthur
& Arthur La-mer-devant-le-corbeau (that's a clouseau)...
done it for her Herbert Huncke of Dada,
that overbored boxer, she'd seareslashingly uncapsize
her artfist nearlyman alive,
dredge him bone dry from the shaggydog spume,
tomb tides. His vox Mary Celeste aired
w/ a flex of her flipper (tho' mystery of mermaid muscle
less glittering is quite how dugong derriere seconds
as silver shitter).
But my Dark Seacow only has high seas seeyas in her eyes,
no snogxygen to resurrecconvect me back
to warm Salina Cruz blues, to the Cape Of Dorian Hope
w/ passionate artificial
respiration like a yawner before a Tijuana
Running around on the beach
and wading into the blue sea
trying to wash away the coarse
sand clinging to her body.
My strawberry girl looks like
she is queen of the ocean.
When she is in the water,
the fish follow her every step
and when she is on the shore,
the crabs scurry between her feet.
She says it feels like she's floating
in space when she is in the water.
She says the sand feels like
velvet on her skin.
I never liked the sand,
but in the water I feel at home.
To her, they are one and the same.
I throw water in the air
and she grabs at it trying to
harvest the rainbows that form.
I make castles in the sand
and she decorates the walls
with pink and yellow shells.
I've never seen someone look
at me the way she does when I smile.
I look right back at her and
make a funny face.
Then she giggles and I smile harder.
I'm not manly or crafty enough to man up
& be craftsman of TLC you deserve.
A toke-nician of THC, like a Zyklon bidet
my exsufflation shafts your nerves.
But O Dark Cow up the arse w/ me,
couldn't my pissy poesy be yr
yr mephistoffee poppy,
it's frowie faust flora & Daltonism's Rose?
These drab bayleavings are my horseshoe headgear
of Ishihara voyelles.
No reams o' mine boa-blent
so consummately to acoustics
of quinqcolour corolla
as Arthur's rainbow of assonance.
No: no arch archy branch
of prismatic natter natty as prisms;
no pipecleaner petals which festoonophone
photic rootlessness 'pon a chromatocrooned
circumflex; nor mostexquisite
spectrographicanalysis (of Phlegathonic rapids' gases)
curved w/ bootivicious elan along the rhyme-bough,
as if a beauty on a rack on rewind. No,
who it does not suit to be so dark,
not like satanicmillsheened,
collierycoated guidedogs of David Blunkett,
you're gonna havta slumit
in my 7th Tunket, where a rainbow is a lamebow,
& the poet's at pyrite bottom of his pot of gold.
Best I can do for you is:
a Jospeh's kaliedocoat hanging garden of flyover,
or God's technicolour handlebar tash
when the Sun came out for 'Pride'
(hi-viz fiesta for velvetferrets & chutneydrinkers,
& Tranny Craddock & Tranny Devito
&... Him? Her? Draggy tran
twin for botoxbutchered Kim Kardashian,
& Tran-ye West strumming a tranjo.
An' an am dram trans man
who used to be a woman in the wounded's white van,
wailing that she didn't wanna whannie).
Now, I'm cishet,
but as a poet,
it's often assumed, yunno,
I'm homo or atleast stye.