I love you but it’s stupid.

you with your bifocal narrow Mind
and me with my Un-neglected Imagination.

we are not a pair.

but we pair well with peach schnapps
and mistletoe.
well slay beautiful gods
with parasites
and adorn the fulcrum
of our arch
with a silent
epiphany
too dormant to be
sleep as we know it
and too tranquil
to be anything
than a false start
in an actual
Now.

I Love you and it’s tragic.

tragic like how a terrapin is not
a writing desk in a moist raven
spooling thunder where the lightning
forgets to thunder

About You.

I’m humming too quickly for the birds to understand the melodious
and my dank petrol is now a garden fire
with too many roses for a grim
and all the angelic spoils
of Loving You
completed.

I am stunned.

Stunned where the sun seldom shines
on a prodigal son.
I self sustain in the swoon
as your embrace defaces
my self-loathing.
and all quadrants of Peace
are mine to gather up
into a spoil

and I am happy to remove
the dark

the span of all my Dreams.

for the span
of all my
Heart.

Indeed.

Lost you in the confluence. In the maze wind.
In the heat of prattle and the garments of Self.
Struck a chord without Notes, and called it Politics
Like a rebel Banshee on a rogue tundra of beach
Thwarting the shenanigans of a polished God.
Lost you in the plethora of Seeming things.
More akin to motes of dust,
Than any Us as constant
As a breeze in Hell-
To cool the troubled brow
of a sinking
ship.

but there were ginger mittens, back in the day
and clumps of outsized joy that I recall
like a brisk kismet upon Avon
and unsour shores of shameless Love
bathing in sunlight; the spawn of wet jewels
in an abandoned well of too much Spring.
there was the constant snore
of our sleeping fear… and all the antlers
for a horse you dreamt
and none of the gods-
to oppose our swollen honey,
when storms
eat bees

As personal
as an optional
sting.

Love was a gift then.
But now…

It’s a poem.

all the atoms in your paw
are hardly all the atoms.
spring sprung
when the prime mover
gave you a spot
on a dot.

a little more Here
than There,
love spooks the-
the rivets of
a solid wall between
worlds with a grace
beyond
Yes.

a little more near than far
is the sprawl of our prodigious-
escape from the burgeoning
comet of collapse.
at a snail’s pace, The Void
and all counsel
in a parlor
of exquisite
Mystery,

we are the sum of our fears
bundled in Banksy spawn
and cosmic drivel
to match the opulence
of a last glance at a
parlor trick
in real
Time.

Love was completely bald and selling medicines
that often cauterized the weeping
but hardly the bleeding.
It barked in Avenues of more Precious
than your usual yearnings…
and gathered all the mice to knit
a sweater for an empty promise
shaped like a girl
with an Undone Polaris
In love with a Loving Drone
in the Queen’s Oblique
like The Last Rampion
in a Carnival
of a Lost
Harvest.

Sometimes, Love was a Baldwin piano
kneeling paraffin and Arthurian Brass
in a Lake Beyond Fire.
Love had the heat of a jewel
in a Vice Grip… and novel pandemonium
as wet as the sea
at the bottom of
The Sea.
There were no explanations
for the inexplicable
as capable as
the Impossible
for a
Start.

we were champions
in Harm’s Navel
And Disarmed.

And The Dark
had a Place
Not
a

Heart.

Now that the clock has struck a sparrow
from the blue chantry of the sky
and our love lays dormant in the glare
of impossible odds-
and sundry escapades
of ill delights
masquerading as dour crumbs
from a soiled banquet
of delicious noise.
Now that the goat
on the slab
is Us,

Trolling sacrifice for a constant gardener-
howling at the broken waves
of our engineered Sea
of displaced heavens…
having chosen the doldrums of a spoiled
expanse of serene idiocy.
cackling like glowworms
in a nitrous ****
of deleted inhalation.
the wraith of my heart,
disjoined from our forever
like a pinwheel
in a dead calm.

burning.

Always.