Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
yesterday had wrinkles too. folding space with disjoint youth
at a pace exceeding understanding. we gimp into wisdom
at first, like docile hags. we love shiny things and postulates
that agree with our craft… we sleep overmuch but alas-
even a long night has its dawning collapse.
and the adventure continues to contuse.
thin heir adjacent to a room full of wounded Portraits.
The Self, like a strip of carpet above the lip
of a bust of Arthur Rimbaud.
as i colonize my outskirts, moon junk sick with the real pity of an angel
but half the size of a whole thing… sort of a trojan armada
marching out of wasted time. a tweedle dee in the steam trunk
of my misadventures.
mostly maple leaf tempura
dozing off in a tempestuous kiss
like a pumpkin praying to Chinese
with a Pi.

we slip into the stream of our afternoon-
and dare the span of a constant dark,
our lanterns possessed
of all the fire we enkindle
beyond spark.
we breathe on the wind
that our sails obey.
however, lost.
eating gumption with
our bare hands-
like golden brutes
tugging sunshine from
a cave.
3d · 34
DONE
toenails in the dark, shuffling in cotton skullies, where the suns park-
on thin dimes… as golden as poached domes in amethyst
where the Royal “ WE” is a scarecrow made of consumption
stitching the wherewithal of an Answer
to an improbable Guess.

we fidget and split the pith of our varmint stars
to within an ounce of Plausible. Gobsmacked in the actual.
chumming thunder with too many rays of delirium.
husking germs at our Diaspora.
cast as an open wounded
conversation.
conversating in a
Vacuum.

like teen angst on a scrimshaw barstool
made of absolute
demise.
the torque of a day with all its wyrd, coming undone like an elastic promise.
we journey to the far place that amber lost, en route to a frozen
as insidious as death. but never woken from a chip of ice;-
for flames will have their lobotomies.
keep your self to your mosquitoes
while you smokescreen-
your terrors with beautiful
things!

sing in the best hostels
of your belligerent joy.
cupping your hands around
an Absolute
Because.
Feb 15 · 34
THYROID PANZER
the oil in the lamp is dreaming of a flask of star garments
draped over succulent blue where the pink is bright green.
crass haloes melting in sterling eggshells
and dusted with cardamom and lost socks.
the soft spots of the world, all dreamt by flame
sleeping in a viscous pool of itself.
swinging from a brace link
in a fable.

the cracked *** in the corner is dancing.
while disable.d.
we are born in the middle of it.
with our questions questing Anubian.
our redacted realities, roiling in the flume
of our heavy chimneys…
swept into voids with labels
that march into dim bleak, with dull bells
struck by lightning, coiled in implausible
hammers… made of last thoughts
and deep collisions.

our mission is agony abated.
should Winter have a star in its pantry
to nurse a dark horse
Then we have a reason
to gallop in the chasm
exuberantly
off course
we are somewhere that gathers moss
while churning butter into permafrost
with dainty little hands, grown savage
from wailing in prayer. we contain a noise
that surrounds us. all the golden pollen
of our dark gardens, swelling in the flame
of our Mystery…. unopposed.
we join intangible things to quicken the hardpan
of our ziggurats. we hum our contusions
into clouds of memory, abandoned by pain
and left adrift in the eye of a grateful monsoon.
culling pearls from loose oysters
where the moon should be.
Feb 14 · 27
IXOLODIA
twilight assembles in the plush velvet ponds of shadow fall and moonlight.
the stars above measle the hemisphere as the world twirls in the dark like a raving Sufi.
we are tethered to a wandering. as the grass of every meadow to a barefoot rascal
taking the long way home
because broccoli.
Feb 4 · 51
stone soup
stone soup steeping in Etruscan  pottery
thrown on wheel from a chariot
dislodged from a bed of clay with a paintbrush
and a *****.
white cliffs staggering along the coast
like a tectonic parenthesis yawning waves
the width of a thousand condors
with eleven words for Albatros
as diaphanous as fog
docking into a bay
of odysseys  
haunting a sandy beach
like an epic ghost.
Feb 3 · 41
DAWNSTAR WRECKING
ozone esters drifting in tandem like sea salt barnacles
crusting the bell of every speck of dew
floating snow globe actual; northwesterly…
adorning the invisible with crepe sunsets, surging the pause
of a baffling miracle as common as time
with purple as deep as a chasm of frozen suns. a kingdom
of rain tilting the horizon with dusky mauve
tinkering with the afterglow of yesterday with tomorrow’s
Shanghai, low in the distant sky departing from derelict notions
of flat earth… hurling through space without ward
or talisman. entangled in the truest thing, curling a tempest
‘round a maypole, spoking the navel of Gaea…
at the center of the Labyrinth
that came with the void.

Blythe bounty vexing the verity of our span
like a boundless mote of crocodilian
conundrums.
beads of sweat gather at the lip of a luminous urn
perched on a plinth behind a waterfall
sequestered in a bank of fog
as noble as an acorn
with a cane.

or a funerary bog
tuning methane with a fork
in the road.
Feb 2 · 21
Stopping The Show
you dapper sprat, ladling curry and favor
over red beans at a price.
paper plate maven at the spark of her prime. soldering anvils to snowflakes
because heavy hearts are so last dead weight. you sing because you have to.
your books are volumes of non-starters, beginning at “ Once Upon a Mime “
but your body says nothing-wise. your flashlight is a droning confusion.
you haven’t an ****** that hasn’t had a problem made of someone Else.
that’s your Sun, grinning at the concrete.
your freckles amazing, but your lesions legendary. And
somehow you cope.
when your mask abandons your false start, you have a face-
for your every ending.
it looks like nothing you were looking for.
but everything you were after.

you film your ending with all
your beginnings
stopping the
show.

Until it Starts.
Feb 2 · 30
ALL THE ALL GONE
pollute your feathers at your peril.
for the sky between scars is every unchallenged door.
and you are the symbol of that fear made flesh.
Life is Shorthand for “ Deal With It”.
our clowns are clumsy when the spotlights conspire
to illuminate the Jest. but we take the Stage
like Pirates made of stars… and weightless coupons.

All the all gone, comes back like a vengeful orca.
bloated with disheveled moons and temporal rifts
in the fabric of a Shroud of Turin.
we bleed where we stand for Nothing.
Sleep where Our Dreams are fitful with Awakening.
fumbling at Martian waterfalls, as we trade
the humidor for the Desert. happy as clams
in a pit of merciless flumes.
boiling with all the Irony of a good day
patched over the Hole
of Every Day.
on the stoop, I glue my tuckus to a plank of mundane as the Chevys cruise in the turquoise Tannebaum
of Twilight, churning shadows into velvet. I surrender when the fog’s kiss, lifts the Veil and I ponder It.
I choose where my dyslexia is a coin and barter for less dementia. serving silent things in the tapestry
of untapped maladies, masquerading as polymer gods in a hedgerow of impossible odds.
I fumble for my keys like the rest of you darlings… but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe.
I’m barging into a rumination, as we speak.
taking the hill of a landscape as a Sharkfin-
gloating in Existential Soup.
My egga roll, something less discreet
than Yellow Journalism
in a Lava Lamp
as Lovers
do.
Feb 2 · 33
Glib DeMenthe Again
After falling in love, you have no cancer
save the weeping in your long dark heart-
dragged into This Situation.
like a glazed donut to a cop’s gob
on a rollercoaster, serving innocent villains
to infinite crimes of passionate Apathy.
Loadstones Akimbo. we gorgeous things have panthers
of naked scars and swarthy galactic dystopias…
bejeweling the heavy crown of a daily dread
spun like sugar into a megaphone
at last.

where our angels, glib de Menthe.
there is no fortress in the sun save the rain in your heart
and the alabaster reprisals of every comet in your dome
chumming the benthic oblivion with chew toys
and pond **** nailed to a rainbow.
there is no surface to breach. only the deep deep
and the overarching unspoken.
the free stars of bold silence
holding its breath like a poncho
holding the rain at bay.
Jan 31 · 29
Barnabas Moth
we are the Barnabus moth in the flame of our contentious reality.
roiling in sunlight benighted. void harpies champing at the 8bit reservoir
of our discontent, relentless and buffoon. our comedies squat on the curbed rapture
of our indelicate illumination. all buddha huffing glitter often
in a dreaming canary’s pistachio garments
loaded with lost ghosts, that mostly pose as a threat
to skim milk. star funked by a torrent of unfortunate blessings.
gaining the last hill on a star
without a serpent.

all the time.
Jan 31 · 81
Green
I have been green. I recall.
withall of my purpose burgeoning
in Blythe ponds of uncommon joy.
my yurts are open to closed snow
but nothing gathers at my feet
so much as the fumes of verdant dreams
polishing the banisters of our compass
with all the fervor of a slave-
to freedom… but having no moon
to conjure with
I have no sun
to barter.
Jan 31 · 25
Like A Boss
As the afternoon ponders the early morn, I quaver and Damascus
every simple coin into a rake of unforgiving steel. my sword deflowers
my sheath like a hornet forgets black honey on a fraction of an asterisk-
bathing horrors in Sunshine so massive, even eyes forget
what they’re looking for.

For Hours.

As the marionettes swarm the unity of our fated strings
dangling from the hook in the sun, simpering in weary delights
we join the spite of our peers with the disjoint promise
of our estimations. We assume the proper god
for the derelict prayer
on the lips of a broken
conundrum, humming verbs like a lunatic
to better scope the open remove
of our return

For Hours.

today is the best guess of an almost Wednesday
spooling jewels from a cracked Always
in the manner of an upset Muse
spoiling the venture of our Providence
with the venomous joy bespoke the wandering Kind.
as poems displace the glow of our actual talk
and aaaaaall the way down
go our prayers.

like a Boss.
how can I control the weather with a withering stare?
with an artless glare into a tomb of unyielding ire?
the type of gyre a rainbow would torment with flare-
combing over the blindspot of our every desire?
these days the weevils march
into the cerebellum harkening the barrow-born
and disquiet. we somehow slumber near-
the cyclones of over dumb.
we succumb to the torrent of our grimoires.
chastened only by Time enough
to **** it up completely.
we are indiscreet en masse.
like a horde of uncomfortable Truths.
and a basket of uncommon proofs
ogling the myopia of our hive
madness.
how we let the squirrels do their thing
is a mystery,

on this globe of woe, our Love generates
the next impossible flower.
our usual display of ignorance is curtailed
by an hour of minutes being beautiful...
the span of our lives.

Sour Sugarcubes are Choirs of UnSung Salt

II

at the beginning, all was a capsule of gleek
glaring at the sun with all the pivot of a dismal Tasmanian Devil
levitating neutrons to new Lows… coming about like a train-
with wings
scaling the heights of Our caverns-
like a nosey Dwarf. carving blood into a river of unrequited treacle.
the Quest of Kings, bound to the bottom of a tyranny
that spells the word for Happiness
with an X.

Yet Love Happens, Yes.
whiskey neat in a thumbnail chapel on the edge of the world
coated in black honey turning blue for a cause.
scribbling on napkins of unkempt self-harm
while garnering the empathy
of a dead god.
praying to the withers of a horsemen
for the lack of women
on the ranch
your stars are
sleeping on,

coy chattel herding thoughts of a flume
marching against clear skies.
slaves to our miracle.

sipping sparks through a straw.
we are all the Other one.
summering in the ramparts
of our descent
as we winter less
in the sunspot
of our acquired
tastes-
so long, lives the waste
of our time
till each tick
is a boom
whispering the egress
of a locked door
on a cliff of
lost sky.

how beautiful my wounds today-
As long as the Healing
Lies -

like the truth of It
Unkind.
Jan 27 · 37
That Took Awhile
with the phone ringing andmynotansweringthephone stinging
i clapped thunder with my hands-off approach.
retreating into something undulating at light speed
but careful to shadow box all ominous disclosures
of unbridled defeat.

i knew when the turtleneck was a masque.
winded by stealth, I beheld the quickening of my own devices
stalking the hammers of my swing.
never careful to be unamazed.
always mindful of a mind blown
to keep the peace at bay.

or in my arms.

and that took awhile.
you’re all wine and horses. parasols on stilts in a squall of calm.
you lurch like a pidgeon at a love note. cooped in your wide arches.
I’ve seen you sleep through the rapture of your own demise
to capture the spark of your rascal for harvest.
you gloom if it’s pretty. but you never know the difference.
that’s why we met on a hill full of holes.

“ wells “
they call ‘em ‘round here.
but they never
answer.

and that’s got you spooked.

Like I don’t know.
the brawn of small clouds
camped in sunshine; scudding a deep blue
as the Sun tanks the Palladium
of All Dark… dangling from a trick Unexplained
in a world UnObserved.

Drupe in a plows thought… an ‘ Afterward ‘ that bears fruit
as the Gardener wanes. Moonlorn and intricate.
all days dunder in the rough trumpets of our entire songs.
as only our sirens deployed in anguish
ever scope the happy of our Finding
Love.
Jan 27 · 29
HAYRIDES IN ANTARCTICA
As much as you Autumn, you can never orange a jaundiced epiphany.
you can only prune the prunes and filibuster rainbows to the spectrum of your grief.
within these margins find release at your perils relief.
******* to the sticking place, all the wandering reasons
to remain Unremained in a place Unbeen.

All the while, sleeping in the forge…
we cobble our stones into cairns
of unrivaled dyslexia. we Ambien in the thicket
and snap twigs.

craven are we -
in the manner of hollow wolves.
or hayrides in Antarctica.
we thought we could master
the average plague
with extraordinary sermons
to serve as serum and solace
but Certainty shackled to blind suns
see only the
Name.
Jan 27 · 43
The Theory Of Me
as I conflate the Theory of Me
I slumber in bins and roast my ingots in foil and ambergris.
I strum violas out of tune to embark upon the lost waves
of my errant Muse. I sedate the bleakery
of my human malaise
with a jolt of  “ run of the mill meandering “.
as uncautious as a knave at Court
when the King sleeps and the Jester
cavorts.

I sneak inside my pollution and render the fat of the lamb
as an offering to a clean thought. I go where my ghost prayers
still believe in atoms and atone for my prodigal
calliopes. I Muse against the world that dismals the darling accolades
of Our disquieted Joy Speck. I foam at the mouth of the Ganges
like a Mad Spartan. Humming the Unusual departures
of our mundane perpetual. Our fleet roots to a spot of bother-
on the hem of Spheres, where no Music
is Undone for lack of Trying
to Compose It.

Thunder is how Yellow speaks to Red furies -
dancing in noncanonical Stories
that collapse to a Star
You’ve Chosen.

and all the flamingoes
stop where the sky
UnOpens.

fin.
I awoke to shed water, then back again to bed with my fuzzy relief
drooping from my sleepy mug. I coughed into a jar of night bees-
laying siege to my most pedestrian pillow.
my beleaguered strides catheter the stream of my unconsciousness
to a far shore where my pets never die and I have you -
to talk too, or glory bang the void with our impetuous existence.
as the gift that keeps on giving us a hard time-
oozes from the lemniscate of Our rim. As poetry malingers unabated-
like a sovereign cadaver in a hall of-
shy mirrors…

I awoke Out of Bounds.
like a native of Null Space.

looked up from a womb of empirical alarm
to fetch the farthest things my Grasp
could ever Believe.

I tunnel where the Morning is spent on the Midnight Dreary
and emerge, incapsulate of no Fate
but my Own.
In my inconstant Inner Haiti
I scoop a broom from the pillage-
of my dust, to sweep
all apathy Eastwise-
out of an Abundance of Caution.
I plunder my Enigma
to confuse less -
the ramparts of my clarity.
To festoon dark quadrants-
with oddments of discontinued
parades.
Always In my loop, my Spine-
a darling knot
cloistered in the open
Question.

Quivering in Dismay
like a hapless
Bruise.

Binding a Cause
to Its Rumor
with -

Absurd.
in the air, all around conspiracies of beauty decanted from a golden lute
jostles the glorious canter of peace, herding all the little things into perspective
like a border collie, combing the outskirts of a wayward. and somehow a balloon
tethered to the wind of a dead calm. you can smell the pontoons of shimmer -
and shed your grief upon the endless rain. sunstricken by the thunderous moon!
you could almost spell ” atmosphere “ with a spoon.

blue skies as alabaster as a Llamas open mind. mad Laureates fanning the flames
of phantasms. hoarding their calligraphy in steam trunks to cross the Rubicon.
coiled like a viper of innocent photons… dancing on a twig,

oak is laughing now, all calm has verve and splendor.
clouds dive from the sun heart of the Implausible
and all grace falls upon the awkward diorama
of our very souls
at a glance.
Jan 27 · 79
Sharp Cliques
some of my circles are sharp cliques.
angular ponds, bobbing for forbidden apples
‘neath a disco ball with asthmatic stars
in a vacuum of positive scars
as loquacious as a long pause
gilding the ludicrous
to **** Time with panache
and seal the sphere of our knives
in the womb of whetting stones
affable in amber
like Champagne fossils
out of tune...

in a flute
Jan 16 · 162
Sharp Cliques
some of my circles are sharp cliques.
angular ponds, bobbing for forbidden apples
‘neath a disco ball with asthmatic stars
in a vacuum of positive scars
as loquacious as a long pause
gilding the ludicrous
to **** Time with panache
and seal the sphere of our knives
in the womb of whetting stones
affable in amber
like Champagne fossils
out of tune...

in a flute
Jan 15 · 35
Who Is You Are?
You’re tightrope-Jelly...
full of beans on a string.
Strapped to molasses
like a garden hose-
to a Roman aqueduct.
Clogged with hollows
and a perfect
expiation...

charming the blood
out of a Blarney Kidney
where a Stone donkey
kicked Thee.

your stars are without proof.
but they got you for a song.
horseless stables unstable now
for the lack of your glad feet
upon the glunk of your casual
flaws.

I assume that you assume
and deliver clips of entirety.
with shards of bespoke Myth-
and cavitations that swell
the heady blink of a lunacy-
You could Kiss for
no reason.

the width of a sliver of peace
is the inverse of all Overtures!
plucky tinkers. affix fobs
to fluorescent apertures…
as to a chain of keys
to a chain of unbearable doors
and all your very much
Loveliness.

Who Is You Are?
I may ask your Self.
But the Echo in Here
Keeps asking me
“Who Am I?”
Lies adapt, but snow has only one way to be Unfallen.
The finch in the wood may sing nickels into farthings
but a hay penny hazards the affable lightning
of our entire departure. so alarming-
our fractions bother the scope
of our voluminous
collapse.
too swollen with gears to rob the peril
from a teardrop laughing to its death-
down an owls cheek…

Too in Love with Impossible
to Last.
keepsake swindles in the savory elan on our precious dopamine circus.
we gather at the spike of our dis-familiar tropes
to aggregate charm and please the whimsy
of our violent innocence
where our souls are
something like a heart
in a null space
of absolute love
to spite
an emptiness
with all the songs
of a full
stop.
Jan 8 · 38
MOON MEAT
all the eyes I have are doll’s eyes.
i sleep where the dreaming is all skies
and scrimshaw. I etch my dreaming into bone.
with all my cumbersome remedies
failing to foist the umbrage
of my knee-**** calliope.
how my nerves Minerva without Wisdom.
As my tyrannies conspire
to abide,

so much moon meat in the hemispheres
of our intangible remove.
the way we aggressively subside
as we quietly entomb.
in bejeweled annihilation
we rupture the clumsy idylls
of our celibate moons.

star flesh wrinkles in a tar pit
of perfect flowers.

like you.

like you.
Jan 8 · 40
Attempt
nothing special, this way comes. only the tedium of adequate days
where the light is enough to call nightfall “ the dark, white meat of an eclipse “
while stars are the implausible sirens of a quiet.
or a “hum” without lips.
we attempt to infuse our wayward epiphanies
with a veneer. never a deep stain for our shallow ponds.
only the very best things for a reckoning
to stumble upon.

and sleep through.

we hoard our moons where our perishables can sing softly
as the entire world forgets how to hold a note-
accountable. we resound in a vacuum
of Unrequited Introspection.
we see the Other as Ourselves-
but come undone
for giving a
**** to
salvation-

on a platter.
there are smug villains in my oatmeal-
and ravenous enclaves of my useless toys.
i have Islands to speak too.
but not a one to call Land.
just a clump of implausible retreats
in a war on my perfect
vacation.

a hole in a fork
like a howl
in a mirror.

always.
Dec 2019 · 75
Magritte
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
without gills, we breathe on the moon.
the humble tortoise has a house and our theories
are quaint. we have all the havoc of time
in an opulent balloon.
an unusual as usual, floating in open wounds
where the worlds on fire are the frozen ones
and all the Islands of our apostrophe
all pause the revelation
as quickly as you
Like.

summer in a spoon is all the cheap heat of our medallions
suckling the ambivalent inferno  of our ice age
spooling an endless wrinkle of our entire folly on a plinth
‘neath a pillar of vaporous Dawn!
Empirial in aspect,... but as fleeting as the miracle.
concave sparks are the Eldar Sign of our implicit medieval chicaneries.
all is the storm of an imperfect thing gasping for black holes-
at the senior prom. the corsage of our immortal souls
adorning the brevity of Life Itself.
we continue in this way
for no reason
with a hat.
Dec 2019 · 53
Lovely Fools
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
in the bed of ourselves, we sleep.
never in the corridors of Our outlandish
awakenings.
we swarm to our purpose
in thrall of any brass
wherever gold should
Be.

lovely fools

can do anything.

Or less.
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
i wanna get into
living loudly.
into saying something-
for once-
at the very least
twice.
i wanna get into
killing boredom
with a blind rage
and X-Ray
eyes
and  a heart
at the heart
of an open
mind.
Dec 2019 · 420
iceberg let us remember
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
our salad days caper in the waning. like a twilight itch.
all the windows are all skies that parachutes shun
for fear of falling in the first place,
as heavy as a bell unrung,
we slip into oblivions as cautious as a rhino
at a campfire… while all the tents
are yearning…

for real fire,
Dec 2019 · 73
Uranium Valentines
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
in all the wax and wonderment surging between the toes of such giants
as all possible moonbeams in a choir of Sky!
you break through the cardamom Kafka
like a biblical plague.
you sunder unique pirouettes  
that blossom in the mundane
like a perpetual
denial.
then out come the unbelievable crescendos
of all the perfect worlds as thunderous as opposing fumes
in a vacuum of splintered Divinity, chastened by
wildfires that love thee Best
in the afternoon of our entire parade…
clinging to the symmetry that keeps your hand in mine.
and all the Uranium Valentines
in a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Jar.
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
behold the truant destiny of our impoverished joy.
swing from a star as ghostly as most of your dreams-
only to dangle from imperfect charms.
gleefully extinguish the harrowing of every day-
upon the lisp of a cliff. in the sharp dark of an unwavering moon.
goad the remedy of You by barking at a star
like a slave to freedom.
or an hour in a cup
of snow.

how i justify the miles between sparks
is how i dare to love.
swollen with unkempt hives of bounty
at the very heart of a ghost
as real as pretending.

these are days of our actual calamity
and the poise of our eventual
collide.

this is the moment that I see you
always.

sifting through stars enough to shine.
Dec 2019 · 109
STONE SLOGANS
Third Eye Candy Dec 2019
a lump of coal on the tongue, like a rogue dark star on the tip of an unlit epiphany.
love has its Fools and all the carousels. but nothing can rehearse a reprisal… if the dream
has neither fear of it or notion… all the implausible directions are just ‘round the way…
pole vaulting over stone slogans in the trenches
where wars are Love.
quite naturally.

sometimes you have to breathe
without meaning
too.

it’s all
a part of the plan
how marbles sharpen
their bandoliers of refraction.
In Thrall of an
Angry Sleep.
and a novocaine Ponzi
Scheme,

to mean Nothing
to.
Nov 2019 · 75
OSWALD
Third Eye Candy Nov 2019
Oswald had no chemistry that hung in the trees like gossamer threads of dream…
he only had quadrants of ambergris, drifting in the iron lungs of impossible Tuesdays
twirling all the calendars of false pavilions on a carousel of too many moons.
Oswald had diamonds in open wounds. He saw how the beautiful ones
had Mondays that Saturdays envied to distraction.
and all the Roman roads were mapless.
Oswald combed the earth for a fraction of pearl
but found only a bounty of weightless
Design.

too heavy to be god.
too beautiful
to be
not.
Third Eye Candy Nov 2019
gather ‘round politely and unsung marigolds will almost love you more.
soar into the anguish of your unspeakable dream. guide your wayward to an afternoon of plausible rapture.
succumb to the forest of your practical Paradise
without the margins of your echo
finding walls to believe in.
Nov 2019 · 38
heartache with spoons
Third Eye Candy Nov 2019
All your doom in a box now
as happy ducks marmalade the pond
with cuteness beyond calculus -
swarming the elaborate morning dew
with an average gobsmack
in the meadow of
my off-handed\
star.

All that and a barrel
of plums.

plums full of morning
and heartache
with spoons
Nov 2019 · 45
HELLO
Third Eye Candy Nov 2019
hello. who are you?
i have a name
that rhymes with dust.
but you can call me -
when you’re done.
we slept through
the unctuous dawn…
fiending in a tide pool
of aggregate stars -
marching into doom
like so much plasma on a dime
spinning in the sacrosanct ammonia
of any given day- preserving
the incomplete question
in a jar
on a window sill
in a basement…
under Us.

did I swerve where
the garden crept -
into your
hands
in mine?

did I ponder overmuch
the moment of You
with all the candor
of a lovesick god
without your
name?
Third Eye Candy Nov 2019
for all my exile I am tethered to the hub of my birth.
woven into the very fabric of my tatters.
in every shingle of my solitude resides an igloo
of perpetual enigma… some stoic crucible
crimping the lightning from a lodestone
bathed in Borealis while tempering a penny
for your thoughts.
to part with it… I need only have words enough
to ask you something that
my heart can burn.

like a lamp in a ghost owls’ eye;
perched on an olive branch -
from an isle of man
in some remote sea of you
where doves trim the verge
by starlight…

should the moon
be full of dark -
for all my
Valentines
Third Eye Candy Nov 2019
She keeps eating the lights. I watch how she gnaws on the bones of fire
without utensils. how her maw clamps a lamp with ravenous aplomb.
She keeps eating the lights and i can’t see the rest of her hunger.
Perhaps this shy Golem wears a cloak?

She has upended the Sun.
Trumpet mute fiercely in the gale of her silent scream.
she keeps eating the lights.
a claw made of sterling glimmer lashes out
from underneath the turbulence
of a Woman.

She keeps eating the lights
because dark matters
apply.

all night.
Next page