when she dines in, she lets the moon do all the work
and feathers slither by, with so many charms decanted in the jasmine apocalypse
to swoon forever like an uncorked boy.
the marmalade is never dainty.
the air is mostly a cotton barge of intangible voyeurs
as intimate as a private thought.
her lace clings to the bead of sweat that twinks besotted
and time prevails upon Beauty with a lewd choir of Sleep.
as she dangles from an ecstasy
phalanges Etcetera.

Stoking quill fires in my oyster magnetron
is all the rage, all the white page -
at its bully pulprint. Gavels singing in the maelstrom
of our misbegotten promenades.
Joking as daffodils pollenate my grief’s migration.
enthrall of a Pagan blot on Night’s plague
as If silly wisdom Drifts!
With Hammers ringing in tandem
to pause at a place that propagates.
A Dead Lift.
Perhaps too brightly.
with Harlequins?  

And navel-gazing.

too U
and Knot
This.

There’s always a little titmouse stitching a joy
into a button’s brass… so the peasant garb has an eye full of eyes
seeing nothing that you fail to see,
only the perspective has changed clothes
to match your apathy...
You could go to The Ball
but it’s Everywhere;
so why move?

And this is how we ponder
on the catwalk.
Fashionably Oblique,
Sword of Damocles
Approved,

I am by no means happy.
Thorn born and ludicrous all my joy.
what is sweet is salt
and what is salt is sleep.
And what is Sleep but an anvil
to believe in.
I hammer loss. ***** at the throat
of a forgotten opera.
all days are the end
as all my honey blacks
where the white theme of a blue world
bleaks the withering
of my constant debacle.
I come from a hell in myself
but choose to linger among you
like a mockery of the same.
Too many stars
and too little light
to conjure them.
broke where it counts.
slumming in the forge
of my misery
as all unbearable love
defies the answer
to a quiet
numb.

a singular curio on
a length of pearls
on a strand of hair
in a pond of
gone.

life is like something
that you can’t place
because Here
is Full.

And There...
has moved
On.

swimming in real
I see the earth in your eyes and cannot sky for all your meteors
sleeping in the atoms of my blanket.
for all the alabaster of your forearms
swarming embrace like thin kittens made of rope
and feminine steel.
I see my worth in your eyes and cannot lie for your troubadours
dreaming in the tatters of my mistakes.
for all the amber chambers of your plum
disarming grace with tin ingots made of hope
swimming in real.