been in winter
and the miles sought after the edge of faith
and the white murk of the Mystery
was everywhere, trojan in a snowflake
and the long beards were crisp
as ice threads of some silk
from some worm
on every chin.

go ahead. cry
if it makes
you happy... never spare
the tear that glares
into the heart
of Darkness
and yet glistens
on the cheek
of your
mask.
a crystalline catharsis
trailing the *****
of your bones
in the rictus
of a half-smile
and a wince.
choose to bleed a little
everyday... in rememberance
of a lost toy. or go home again
and hate that place
and come back
missing it.
never fail to weep
when the beauty of what it is
to be happy
is the gorgeous sorrow blossom
losing petals in a gale
of laughter.

and a moon.

how down
the below goes
no one
knows...
but i
assure you...
there is no
god
at bottom
and the zenith
is a tyranny
of empty.
a truer
you.

when
the birds
ate dynamite
to spite
they're beak;
they sang an evil
good, and knew it !
while the black
of their feathers -
wore white
so their black hearts
stood out.
black
nice.

mars,
mars was the God
of War on Red
so when we bled
no one would know
we were drowning
too.

and no one would know
how down the below
floats, nor have a name
for wondering

without a question

in the night
the trees lose their bark
and gain a smooth
dark.
they twist in the breeze
and lean moonward
in the rain
sheet.
if the rain
rains
and the moon
looms.

in the night
what crawls,
crawls deepish
and sleepless.
it dreams
wishless...
and scurries in leaf pits
and scents the air-wick
with black
eyes -
inhaling the volume
of silence
without lids
to shut
with.

just an iris
the light
shuns
a bit.

and the moonlight forages
the constant moor
of lesser marshes.

the damp cringe of the late hour
stark with stars with no power
to overcome the poetry
of the lowest things
that aspire
to cold flame
or some heaven's breath
on a dying ember
with no
name.

just before dawn
glass drum skins
crack.
and the up above
is down below
sifting through the pollen
on the plump thighs
of sleeping bees
while singing
to itself

It's Self.

or

It's Dream.

not sure how this goes... but it went.
it went south and bent my knee and troubled glum
the fuchsia ringlets of my armoured pollywogs.  
my unkissed toad. my croaking need.
it kept no secret sacred.

we are long gone. and more long writhing in vinegar and damp spruce.
we juice the dessicated fruits of our laborious orchards.
and chant useless news at light speed
to hasten darkness. to clip wings.
we jeer at the summer of our lush coins. we spend time
but gain none. and such is our abattoir.
our fatted calf, gasping in the gears of our industry -
choking on the floral arrangement
of our daffy deal.

all metaphors are five fingered. lesser hands are not god's.
joy stumbles in the ruin of our naked ambition -
as hell abides. we sum the minus signs and add zero.

at odds.

your atheist heart at a revival tent. tentative.
van gogh gone. minivan extant. you move to idiot music and the outskirts
of once is enough. many, many times...
you bleed through your harp. you join the diaspora and flee belonging
in favour of a dry between. repetitive.
wheezing orchestral. your long strides clank. you farce and moan...
but Nothing is believable

Till Nothing Happens.

i love you and that is the yes weight
and the high noon trauma.
the unborn cathedral
of tiny smart people
and the near dark
nova.
the grove of our open wound sustains
and the very love of our bleached dream
.... a godless cream
in a crimson
church.

our idols, a dim mirth. and nothing as it seems.

But -

Oh how the awfulness trumps the blue
and the black behind it
shines ! what might we, the feeble guttersnipes do ?
but save a prayer to a dead god
and march to wane fields
behind it...

love-blinded ?

what are your terms ? the Devil may ask of you and you and you ...

but the true quest is a riddlement,
a prune on the throat of a mute Sun
singing the bleak queries
of an afterbirth, after thought
has abandoned
a hazard's guess.

Tomorrow is a crumb of soft words
and a walk of the plank.
The high stench of probable cause
and the noisy stench
of a chaste complaint.
a dreary ruby
groomed in the *****
of the earth
to be the first
fool.

and the last lust.

a complete waste of light
where the darkness falls
like an anvil chanting
a hammer's
song
but tone deaf
and sparks
sadly.

we have our plots and flotsam
and plod joyless; rain smitten.
we join the heap of foil and protagonists
in the tale of our distemper.
we whimper in the dark of our hard furnace.
fumbling for trinkets of mirth
where no god has birth
even as a dented
trumpet
to a hairlip...

Or a Name that comes First.

and yet we sing. but -
the song is wrong righted. a blight
blighted and a long drum
mumbling benighted
in the silk light
of our simple
worms.

our apples ache. our knowledge, rots .
but our temples, at the core
seed the valley. we famish the mountain
but feed the foothills of our strange
and strum the harps of Oblivion
with our mean thumbs.

constant gardeners of hard loss and flight.
and the Night's Sun.

how are you this mad? from where comes your explicit wreck ?
are you undone ? if so, let me show the way to another trouble
to keep at your breast. let me reveal the vista
and the void.... to console your tremors in the meek nightness
of your unfortunate soul.
i love you.
and loving you is nothing more than nothingness.
but you dream of hate and cinders.
full tilt boogie with that shadow
but never mine
at last.

never mine at all.

You live
for no reason at all
and that's
the worst
Joy.

Because.

summer is a fool.
sprung from the unctuous
couscous
of a witless bloom.
the too long reason for a plausible ruse.
a dumb chump, whupped and thrashed
but never told otherwise how down
the below goes... but well informed
how the formless reeks
of damp
No.

the worst joy is slumber
when the wind is kissing your dessicated kiss.
when the whole emotion
is half the feeling.
when the real thing is just false enough
for poetry
but real enough
for dreams.

Sometimes Silence is a Lie.

it drains the lake, it does... it siphons the symphonies.
it bleaks the speech, unbridled
from a long mute, to a mutiny. the mute in me ~
would rather, but we'd rather knot.
null reprisals, highly prize super nova
in the Scotia of our scathing
plight.

no other might. but...
we'll do what the light won't
in the dark night.
we'll trouble the cube. each of us, the rube
in tomorrow's ****...
the Thumb
in the oyster of an ill quiet
where the Lord of Prayers
Errs the attempt
to split Heirs.

We inherit the wind
and a breeze.
And a breeze will ****
a Windmill

straight fair.

but not for the lack of peace.
but the fog of war.

at the very least.

with no maths for happy
i divided my ' why? '
by Zero
and fell in Love again
like a sceptic
with a wild falsehood
masquerading as
a plausible
X = " WHY ? "

but  we know not.

better i should makes waves
in the cavernous
and strike wood
with earnest flint, and cheapskates
on golden ponds of ice
unfathomed, mostly
dark good
with sternest glimpse, for pete's sake  
and i could go on, twice
as unaccounted, ghostly
numb soot
in the worm's mint sutures; an armour plate
of Unreal numbers.... kites
in the unfounded, frozen
in the floating point
of a Reason.

or I could call You.... hmmmmm..... ?

Addiction is a real thing
South of the last thing... a grim dope
in the hopeless soap fiend
of a washing; where a mind dreams
but a head, thinks -
where a heart
stopped.

and we live
Unseen.

we rove in shabby clothes
in the splendorous groves
of our night kingdom.
we tread unkempt beds
than rather lay our heads
or make love
in them.
we darken the closest star
we further the farthest
more lost,  than
found.
we groom the mane of our lying.
not for the lack of trying
the truth...
but more, for the harm -
done allies
in a war of thumbs
in a Serengeti
of our imminent
demise.

we poker face.
we monopoly grey
where our pink blood
is enough.
we trouble the rust.
we slink and encrust
where the oil slick cuts
a more striking
disfigure.
we toss sharp dice
for dull games. blood mites
for dust devils
in broken
chains.
we retreat from rings
that ferry ending gloom
to better yes the no of things
too maybe
to true.

I'd like it if your orange were more blue.
If your red more green
and your eyes more less than moons
that break waves against me.
I glue glaciers to sun
to cool your Spring's mischief
and never am i happy to remove
from my stillness
between Us.

I am unjoyed
in the twine of our lost joy.
Made unkind in the rasp
of our sour glee.

I glue glaciers to the sun
to cool the misadventures
of our dire hope.
I noose the rope and sing
as you go beautiful
away

from me.

i'm not so in love now.
but love bargains for my emptiness.
it trips me up
and cries in the blue glum
whimpering for nothing more
than your sweet.
it kills the light and cadavers my living lungs.
it leaps into oblivion, more than it sinks
into pretty graves.

I

not
every day
of the week
has a name.
several do without;
and last
forever.

as some
are

Mondays.

II

Let me be clear.
You have no soul.
You are
one.

III

I am thinking of a number.
Divide it by two
and you will know
what i think
of something
else...

When I gave up
Not a bell rang out.
And Lightning was withheld
By all accounts
From every corner of the sky.
And Thunder
had no
mouth.
No Siren sang.
There never came
A wailing throng.
When I gave up
A Shadow passed. And shook -
my hand.
And moved
Along.

on a good day
the ice is cutting your feet
but it looks like you're -
walking a seabed of roses
and red bells
shivering in silver molasses
and your far away eyes
seek oblivion and
mercy...
but you can't think
of anything
to dream.

on a bad day, you can't smoke scotch
so you drink it. you burn matchsticks
and croon lunacy with thick lips wishing
and rude plumes of an ash life.
you can hardly bark, but your bite's slipping
and the fruit is straw and dung
but the sugar,  black
in the white
flesh.

she sat like old smoke on the back of an elephant in the room.
like a dead wreath, breathing a pure circle
of hell. she broke a tambourine over the head
of a homeless man made of diamonds.
she broke his hardness with a constant sigh of sorrows
and chose to do violence upon her last smile
clutching the bitter rings in a porcelain
tub. brassy lion's paw
resting too heavy now on a cracked linoleum
floor.

with her eyes
open.

we can't sing so much, but alive we deaden somber with aplomb.
we are remorse and ripe plums. tap roots fastened to air kisses and laudanum.
we congeal in our own ' thud '. a slow bomb coughing the alphabet's are off -
with our high noon lows; depleted aloft. we are One -
in the chamber of succinct
loss.

we carry on. drudging up the hillocks of our Pandemonious Love.

blurting the wrong devout; conjoined to the rip in our seamless joust
adjusting the rudiments of our lathe of fresh hell; to accommodate the actual constant
of our hateful esteem. the very same accursed of our mutual louse...
doubting the excellent **** of our divine Without.
we covet the reign seeds
of Love's Drought.

and as plausible honey
we comb tangles
into sunrays

out loud.

we cannot sleep when the other is our dream made flesh
as we argue the point of our pointless.
when
all but the altar
believes...
what god says
" yes " ?
and who  needs
a wasteland
when dead cherries sing
our oasis

but winter Springs ?

in his soul
another one.

one that is not so lovely
and not so
his soul.

but one that is unkempt
and joyless as a happy
death.
his motorcade
draining the true yes
from a hard no.
his lungs
gleaming in the rasp
where the tundra
bleeds
but the snow is keen
to undo
the dead drift
of a bleak
bleak.

or a long wrong.
that sleeps.

if the brand new day is more elsewhen
than the right now...
find your joy
and jump for it
when the Earth is more small
than the gravity.
when the simple thing
is more gone
than an apparent dream
slumbering
where the caste is a husk
of no thinking.

drink fear and be done with it.
sour your oats
and bring the sea to your fathoms.
be one with the ghost
of your mad madness .

be glad at your march
into rude sadness.

be one with your never
as completely
as you dive

darkly. as
ever.

As Ever.

the way you have your way
i might as well choke on Atlantis
and yield to the twilight pitchfork
of your tongue. an amaranth.
whose nectar
is some
doom.

glue my misery
to the slippery
*****
of lost meaning....
all the while
meaning to do so -
a
farsight
more so
than knot
cope.
but
somehow, jellyfish blinder
than up close...
and
not quite
seeing
what matters
most.

just the sting.

you must if you must. if you must.
if you must not, then you will
because you are in love
and nothing
is what nothingness calls
love
and the habit of our industry
effete.
and we have two
Left.

to dance with.

before the world ends
begin.

that you may not love
is the haunting.

where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.

and nothing is foreseen
like the past.

II

in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
note.

unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.

and there,
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
we fathom.

been to your house
where all the light bends -
where all the Flamingos  
eat their feet
for Fear of landin'.
where the crosses burn your heart
and your Art
is a Most Lost Cause -
I've seen you at random
according to
your plan...
i've found you
smoldering in the east wing
of a westerly
advance.

been to your world
where the girls in the air are priceless
and found you among them
trimming treacle from
the diamonds... your gorgeous lungs
twirling the unbelieveable highness
of a soft note
from no
song.

it was not so clear, the day. it was hostile and tranquil.
what sort of Day is That ?
I think it sparkles.
But it's gem is mean, beneath carbuncles -
and none shall pass
without wretched disfunction.
without Unpeace swilling the liqueur
of dark sweets.

it was not so clear, the day. but it clarified the manacles.
what sort of Day is that Dark ???
I think it hardens the heart of all kindness....
but it's dream is obscene, and needs the rest of Heaven's Council.
But Love's an ***
that saw the Angel... not the bulletproof glass.
just the the angle of Descent
and the " No Wisdom ".

it hurts Because.
You Live
for no reason at all
and that's the worst
Joy.

Because.

in the pool we sleep.
we let the deep speak
and retreat into our shallows
with our last breathing
as deep a weaving as a bird's nest
in a dead
eye.

where is where ?
and why are you there, leaving ?
why are you wrong for me ? when the right thing -
is more than our ***.
more
than
love
?

why ?

clean in the filth where the spectre yelps and bleeds
my wrists; bound to betray my hand -
i gather gods, too weak to be
unloved completely -
without vanishing
into blue
what?

spotless in the hell of my blot
in the chambers of my open wound...
i glue glaciers to the sun's heel
and mark time
with shadows -
i cast into other moons  
for lack of a reason
to do otherwise.

in a world
so otherworldly

to love me less
than snails
in clarified
butter

is to play god.

but

you have to be
God's Fool
or the Devil's
yes-man

saying no.

you remark and i flinch in the breeze fantastic.
i blast past it, and return; not unscathed
but ungathered
in the Harvest of our
Misadventures.

I'm an indentured surgeon
cleaving the cancer
from the polyp
of our necessary
illusion.

in this Ocean
I'm not waving...
only drowning
in the wishful.

i barricade tsunamis
to tide-pool
the fathoms of our
fumes.

in my waking i slept heavily
and marched into the spiral
severing the path
from my step
as only an angel
may deny you .

there, my eyes were feet.

As i tip-toe through the violence of our steamed peaches
i'm at least speechless. a weak link-ness
in your valley. a thorn ! -
of unreasonable size. you vie for the deep regions
of our shallow demise,..
for thine is the kingdom of no Mercy !
yours is the thing that screws -
where the knot is trixy.
we forgot how our terrors nursed the oblivion of our kisses.
we forgot how to lie.

as i tip-toe through the two lips, like low hanging fruit to wax eloquent by...
i delight in speeches. in the thunderous hush of fairy wings in a hurricane
as i blend margaritas on the back porch of our squalor....
with a terrible blender. i'll toss in
the splinters of our tyranny.... how we waged war on innocent fallacies !
how we gathered our storms in the basement.
tripping over land mines
in the shape of human hearts.
YOU had your nerve.
and I had us both
blind.

as i tip-toe through the violence of our steamed peaches
i'm at least speechless, but yes !  i'm most ******.
for mine is the kingdom that has no sun
but on Thursdays we have these banquets that starve you to death -
Right in front of Everybody !
you might get to talk about sport
but you're more game to wander off
from the insipid herd
to gather moss from dark pavilions.
you might nurse the ****
of **** all !!!!

but you'll  be ****** if she's not there
to see it !

we have gardens that have no center. wild things in us.  

believe.

a tough nut
to crack
is why ?

I am not a poet.