deep pheasant feast full of mulberries and ******* in aspic
as I windge.  a tornadic thumb on my goslings
twisting feathers into ink
while marching up my spine
like your usual
epiphany.

i love how it never Is
and assume the Fae folk filagree
more of a spark
than my own denial of glamours.
saving my breath for a clam
in wax
stealing oxygen
from a pearl.

as all the bones... when I do.

a snail, plumb in the crease of a wilting green leaf with a loose tooth.
all the theatric lemonade at the box social, basking in long overdue
and upfront Delilahs… scorpion averse in a diabetic coma
made of so many wishes
you can’t live with.

the snail disembarks from the usual blarney
and writes a book about an up-close bird
with a beak as ominous
as a pop quiz.

while The Play is the Thing that keeps asking Why
when there’s a perfectly obvious
Gadot.

Oh, you got jokes now? did I inspire you?
my inner cleft palate, too savage for your average villainy.
Oh, I get You...
Ghost town deputy -
slapping tickets on my flow.
but
I don’t know you though...
just so you
Know.

my wings sting hornets
cloistered in an endless performance
of how we love things.

troubadour magic
where the windmills are
semaphore

balking at the Fascist storm
of your prattle.
to make battle
with young stars
more golden than
your Solution.

more than your binary coffin spittle
in the wink of a furnace in the palm
of a shell game alchemist.

but with all
the jewels
you can’t
leave
with.

because I said so.

that ad on my porch is like smoke preaching fire to an ice cube.
got me hot, ironically; all of me purging a T.V. Dinner.
some of my best jokes are Friends.
but nothing sells *** like a useless needful thing
on a loop.
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Marginal!
we’re all in,
barking mad at the cathedrals
of our perpetual sieves…
sifting through giants as granular
as a perpetual
Scheme.
the bees keep dying,
but we’re selling Biaural speech.-
to a hivemind. squandering the verity of a reason
buy shilling the dream of a better Whatnot
to not have a Nonesuch
in the bargain
of our
Stupidity
versus
the entire peach
of our wanting.
stone pit gleaming
like a Disco Ball
At the heart of a Lie
for a Human.
as gullible as
Alive.

lost the remote. now the adventure begins.
when Bookstores were actual, you could go there
and find what browsing smells like, by-hand,
but pacing back and forthright on **** affords -
the grand vistas
of sustained contemplation.
candles lit for no reason
just pretty.
laptop humming like a soft boiling box
of overexposure.
and there’s the bourbon
on a resolute desk
like a summoning
of moonshine
with a caramel
sun.

all that, and
no pun.

space is nothing severe.
a docile appointment
of umbrellas weeping
and overcoats clutching pacifist spikes.
the odd mirror, telling nothing but the truth
curiously gilded in baroque frames
draped over benign hooks
in a wall, wearing paper for as long
as anything ever lasts.

in her apron of doom, she dresses the hare with a sharp kit.
they glisten with their purpose; dividing fowl from the air
solving the agony of hunger… with a pang of grace
and Darwinian inertia.
the knives dream of clean cuts
and mangos.

and her kitchen is pristine
as a bell.