Violets in my hair

Whiskey on my breath

Neon letters scrawled across my porcelain chest


Heaven looks so far away


That which makes me envision

Also steals my youth

Like an ancient smoke cloud thieves the mood


In one small stroke

Of my feathered ink pen

I could sign away the future

Gravity is precious

The air we breathe is wine

If you think the stars are joking, you’ve already lost your mind


Brave child

Why are you all-a-weep?

The huntress shall return


Meek and mild

I know you watch me sleep

Cities are gonna burn


But what a careless thought


Such a crown of thorns


When we all can be sold and bought

We’ll hear the bell that warns


Gonna March right outta this town


To the woods

To the thicket

To the marsh

To the groves




Gonna live underground

Blue agate in my soul

Crushed to pieces

By jaded crows


They gain strength by wrecking me


My body

Made of feathers of the softest, most delicate kind

My memory

Made of fire that would burn a thousand men



But still I am weak



But still I cannot cry



And yet I can speak



Be still you wicked lie

Sacred writing on the bathroom wall

Makes me think of brighter days

Of Summer then Fall


Kitchen blessings by tweeting birds

As I wake up from my slumbering state


Daughters in the hallway

Singing praises to the cat


When will the daisies show-up to make the daffodils smile?


All this I hold dear to my heart

The whole earth

Is drenched in pearls

That glisten

Like the glitter on a winged cherub


The universe, in its entirety

Is bathed in a ritual bath

Of waters that are blessed by mothers


The space I now occupy Is covered

In the vines of a grassy bungalow

Cursed with graces from Golden Times


Utopia is real

Lower my head

brighten my eyes


and then it feels right


and I start to drive
and I drive

and I thrive


on wicked skies



unfolding




even these delicate cruelties


these beings


occupy space



and my blue denim eyes


see your neon



displaced

Today I was made of gold & silver


Each hair strand was pure UV light




Gracefully sublime


A pyramid-shaped treasure implied




And it was lyrical





When I was feeling like this and like that

It had a ripple effect on my spine




My skin felt pleasantly warm

And fine




Like after bathing and dancing


In star-crossed crystal canyons






I felt small and significant

All in the same







I could walk right up to the painted sun


the peach-peach

the vellum




And I knew I could save him




With all the diamond tears

I had collected

In my apron






Believing we could both be made

Of the same wavelength




The same endearing fire






The same sovereign echo of a heart beat

Can you recall
The death of an orchard

In times

Of vacant thought trapeze?


It’s like breathing-in
A fractured landscape




Whilst sipping tea


With the vanilla beast
Of your dreams

Emerald Ireland looks great.
I want to go.
Syria was once beautiful before the war.
Racing bikes are as cool as jet fighters.
Look at the Isle of Man TT and Le Mans 24hr endurance bike races.
Breathtaking like any air show flying display.
Goodbye wobbly wisdom tooth, you fakin cant!
You broke by roast spud; caught between 2 teeth.
Off to the tooth butcher.
£48 rip off again.
Get a tat for that price saying:
I DON'T WANNA BE FECKIN RIPPED OFF!
How can I learn to love this danger town of mine?
When you crucify yourself you use a magic hammer to get the last nail in.

God scans through the texts of Tolstoy
For the secrets of the universe
While the archangels at the table
Dispute loudly, who is worse –
Was it Van Gogh, or Picasso?

“I was far worse than both of them!”
Says a self-righteous Mozart
While Beethoven starts spitting.
“Oh, don’t you two start!”

Warns a tipsy-stern Gabriel
From behind a tall lager
While Plato scrawls circles
Like a half-a-dime auger.

“Silence!” God booms,
Though his eyes are quivering
With unshed tears,
And Dickinson is shivering
With the draft of early evening.

St. Peter is resting,
Feet propped on a chair,
Before returning to his post,
And God lets them all stay there

By his side as he thumbs
Through War and Peace’s last pages
While the fire burns low
And the storm outside rages.

Wilde laughs uproariously
At the news while he cooks.
“How was it?” Michael asks
As God closes the book.
God takes a moment
Before his answer, confessing,
“It wasn’t too bad, I think,
But far too depressing.”