one single you of mine
ahead away far long offshore your eyes
to me appear, a cabaret of stars
my child
the infant space to fill
the hole and i
complete my seed
her tree
to life, bring one
single you of
mine.

with an unobstructed view of god's boot -
can also be seen
my quaint Victory
Garden, with a babbling pond -
and fresh green shoots
seeping into your Koi Thoughts;  i trouble you
from dull slumbers
to great new heights
of lowdown
***** love.

and may i trouble you again ?

dozens of unbelievable weevils weaving
as they bore wholes in half your things
and keep weaving... breathing out,
the frozen account. breathing in the terror
of a bent bliss. a rude clue in the dim lit.
a dog star

that never gets it's day.

catch the last wave and i'll be there
combing the beachhead of our misery
swollen with big love, choking on the theory of our negative heavens
you and i,
we marvel at the heresy of our wisdom
and cherish no giant over divine
we david the furies that are nephelim
but conjure no gods where the plastic can't be useful
we dunder in the bluff of innocent cupids
we -
the idiots on the cliff -
dancing
when the glockenspiel itches !
clock faced and *** up
i'll be there with black honey, " With You "
no doubt
pondering the wrinkles in your sleep breath.
the sweet killing of tomcats and mackerels
the plain fact that our noses
are numb from eskimo kissing
in the igloo of our perpetual alaska
the arctic furnace of our wild fires of pure illusion
to trod stunning over hell's paradise
and catch a glimpse of snarky
stark Silence...

You
catch the last wave -
and i'll be nothing but the singing bones of the wind
in the throes of an ****** of  " need you "  and only you.
a chosen cyclone from heaven
i'll be just a little boy
in the clutches of a dead teddy
where the poppies sing
hallelujah !
and our hearts blight the orchid of our accord.
and down -
comes, what ?
what do we do ? what could we possibly ?
we hopscotch the bonnets
and glue ravenous bumblebees
to a blanket
of snow.

cause we have the technology -
we can disassemble it...

discretely.

stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-***** in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.  
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.

[ undefined ]


i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.

but i'm sure i pass
through There

ever since.

Rod Serling In The Blue Finch Foie Gras
went peacefully when the proper Authorities arrived
to escort Him from the Pate' to the Patio
but was overheard trading barbs with a flat foot
florid with Aqua Velva; both eyes -
without Harps, Utterly.

The Other Stars are watching my Orpheus, rowing a Tea Cup 'cross the Mighty Mississip'
chewing on cobwebs and split infinities.... never been at ease with a good ****... but Love's Will
is Oroborus... and to believe in you now, would set ablaze a thousand torments...
The Last Drop from The Last Orange. The Other Stars have Tears in Their Eyes.
They weep the Mighty Mississip'

So i can be on my way
So I can Be
on My
Way.

the air is bending
because Love is Christmas
on Christmas day-
at Night... and you might be rabbits
if you're not ghosts !
or perhaps -
only the tinsel in the pitch dark.
where our hurricanes
are just like people.
but you're
Christmas
and that's how god
forgot you
and i didn't !

i never didn't !

and Yes
isn't.

Isn't We ?

when i'm gone i have five shadows
and they knit quilts with barbed wire and dead leaves.
they chew on the fat lie
and simply forget the gravity of exile.

but i'm here now, and i love this.

as the last laugh is at last and then
the sparrows that we conjure with
are singing till the earth is dead
but only in our tiny heads.
we come upon a road to cross
a path to trot, if so, if not.
a chance to choose how slow we're lost
and far too many
machines

in our
hearts

that never stop.

when no moon is the reason and it's that.
you may be the first one on the moon of your own real mccoy.
and oi vey ! you're about to have cancer but you're too busy dying from boredom !
you have straight teeth that crooked smiles get the *******
and the wisp of your future lays dormant
in the huge bend of your sinister
where the crimp is binding the pinch
and the hole is dropping
the gallstone
into the pudding
with your
beast.

today is all day and without you, the numb comes burly.
an unkempt one.
a numb that preys. and you
are on the Other Side of the World -
and the girl i want
at the same time.

our worlds are not alike.
we are undone by our astronomy
as much as we have
chemistry;
and that's the hollow
of our fondest
hope !

the barrel full of stream.

nirvana has no heart.

you must dissolve
in all directions to arrive.
you must not be
too american.

and have a **** salad every now and then
it won't **** you.

when your joy is not there, and the angle of your descent is the stuff of legend
be advised. you have but one soul to squander; so wander the better ferals of your naked truth
and be lovely. when you despair, you have a habit of dread. you ensnare the vertigo of your plummet
and rummage through the rancid
with no maths for Happy
all day.

your feet tread the sands of an hourglass at the last minute
blazing ephemeral across the hot coals
of lost moments. doting on the soul in the rack. kissing the wrinkles
in Time's brow.

make love and bandit. now is the why. your balloon's addicted to helium and your grace.
choose the hard stars to look at. but be thankful of your love, now blind.

no one knows How to ride a bike.
we learn and discard. what once,
came hard -
now a faculty, disconnected
from the [  method.  ]
embedded in
the act.  beyond the rhombus of our reckoning !
and the calculus of initial conditions,
indeed;  waaaay back
when skill lacked
and the knack was absent.
with - only pure Will
Unpacked.

mastery forgets.

and we forget
That.

here come the real                    and the snakes
and everything hurts, here on earth,
till it hurt's you
out of place...
where
blue skies howl
our name -
where the seething intention
is stalled
in a comet's hatred...   and
eating the miracles
howling in the amber brain
of a fossil
OF
a golden honey-ant, frozen in too much wrong place at the wrong time
like a delicate whisper of deep scars where                 never been looking
and to notice -
is to weep...

are the same

You Don't Know How To Scream, Because The Monster Sings

terrible machines slipstream the extreme in-between where they grind the invalid star heaps into dust
there, they spike the lion's paw of life's Sphinx, methinks it winks at God's Riddle, and twiddles a thumb of some god, in a sky pod of dead people, hording jasmine and madness and pancakes, upon the everlasting Maybach sedan with the chrome piping and the platinum plinth, regal in ice and fire !
what aspires must be crushed into tiny little else. into neutrinos of speculation in the non rational abode of  our most holy joke. the spun spoke, in a wheel of cold lotus. we  know this is not a dream without motive. we know this because we notice, know this because it's flawless, and flawless reveals a mind of terrible machines that slipstream the extreme in- between  where they grind the invalid star heaps, into dust ! they might spike the lion's claw of Life's sphinx, where it thinks that most people are dead inside, that might can take a joke if joke is told in a void baritone with Gamelan Bells of Unbearable Revelation, the revery of a Greek nose on the face of a broken clock.

Is that your plan ? you move mountains and maraud daffodils, draped in purple and gold ironies.
forever splendid. roman roads dream of your feet. are you always this beautiful ? are you mad ?
how many butterflies would it take to hide your smile ? that radiant starvation made ebullience
and alabaster. is that your plan ? you're simply gonna waltz on sunshine, only to pirouette pining
one love ? are you sure about the halo with graffiti ? when i saw that, i was yours. do you even
remember a life i didn't Love You ? i didn't think so.

why so quiet ? don't you have something to say with your lilting voice ? i have stalled
your riotous beauty .I have your Crystal Silence. it feels like dying wealthy. was that
your plan ? are you always inevitable ? just because that would be great and you know
me. my schedule is wide open. but i just clocked in. was that your plan ? was all this
love yours ?

good plan.

Doubt may serve the quiet one
who reads the deepest tomes
that languish in the hallowed halls
where learned men are known
the one without a master
may seek mastery, of the self -
scanning ancient leather bindings
brooding darksome
on the shelves.
He may comb the beach for pearls
and **** the oysters in the sea
or dive beneath the tide
to pry them open
with his teeth.
he may doubtless have to surface
from his labors in the deep
with nothing more than silt
as fine as motes of dust
to keep.
or treasures that contain the whole
his grain of doubt
conceived -
as lesser to the sum he knew
but now he cannot
see.

This one may surpass us all
and leave us to the beach.

Or scrawl the sort of question
that an answer
only dreamed.

our withering is changing. we have new lungs and the sour mercy of our discotheque is no longer
earth shattering. new bells that'll ring, ping the sonar of thus far, and right now. our iguana
is bothered but our cactus is out of practice, so we malice the wrong people. brown scotch
botched in the locust plume of our nothingness.
all in the night jar.
we palm the coin of many realms but snooker the genie into 4 wishes for kicks.
we split the bucket list and enlist strange agents to embroil the liturgy of our silence
with the umbrage of our slumbers.
where rumbles the blunder of our measured steps
as we stumble through the rapscallions of our private thoughts in the after hours.
we empower our oblivion
by kissing on the mouth.

this is how we keepsake sacred, but escape velocity by way of quiet... this loud.

The little bones of clouds
I used to keep; Lethargic Dynamos of odd begotten piccolos...
dainty mint of pish and tosh
a dandy lark
ellipse and farce, surpassing strange.
Are you then, a ' withering fiction ' ?
an addle carp of Cain's insurrection !
Or a less offensive Icarus
who hails from Sweden?
You, who sold me the bones of little clouds
and kept fair all frost and longing...

Hither go, encased in Larceny
a prince of deep wish
and ill-favored, disjoint Harmonies
Soiling Time... Adrift-
Our mad Geppetto
in waning light

But not quite
as redeemed.
For Hell's Bells have brushed
the tips of my wings
and I'm off -

and aloft

And away.

teething on the knick in your lip, mind blinded.
seeping through dragonfly wings like syrup sunlight.
you emerge without an egg-tooth. draped in moist.
you loosen the nail in your coffin
with drowsy crowbars
and scones.

sapping the faith from dust, i was ever wise.
a chipped tooth in a broad smile of a worm
on a rainy day.
you had your petri dish of phantoms and a small stake
in talking ravens... i had your god in my basement.
sapping the viscous chill of your willows
amongst proof that no rabbit has a hole enough
to **** Alice.
just a frame of reference more dangerous
than a rainy day
for a puddle
of sun

and strange mints.

Love
is a wisp of flame in the wind
that feeds on a perfectly pointless joy
a boy and his fog
on a reckless trek
through the Eye of a Noose
at the end of a rope
with no one but the devil
to enjoy how you swing
without a bat..

and that’s the Joke.

Love is the love-child
of Hate and a Thread of Hope
Snagged on the knife
in your back. Where They-
left it.

There’s a draft,
but that’s only the Hole
in your life
catching Hell
in it’s
throat.

No Hands.

vague games enable and our liturgies co-mingle in an inkling of the I.
your mind succumbs to the soul. the rabid rain is ironic and the font you spell ' god ' with
is all scrawl and scrumptious. you lump this dream into your dolphin of Delphi
and squeak cute symphonies of deep brood.
you choose your Oblivion.
and that's how Angels kiss. they force the Word through your Animus
and greet your weakness with squinty eyes and Lion's breath.
you're the next best thing since that one thing that had no soul for god to play with.
it never complained. you might look and you might not see
what you're not supposed too. but i know you'll be happy with lemon-drops
and long dark naps.

that's how we do,

like a crispy pillow is a cloud with a lobotomy
and all my barbed wire is wine.
Like i'm the king of unbearable sublime. you anoint the fallen. i spike the punch, judy. you sunshine.

eulogies wet the pavement. darth mauls
the halls of our peril
and the dry
sparrows

you had no love but you had a thing that went thump
when you met her. and some other cocka-mamy thing.
and your narrow view
of the wide ha ha and the mute " **** this "
and why not?

we're all caught in the same frame and the gorgons are massive. you have to elect a hero to laugh at Death with and might get a girl.
you're nothing at all and that infuriates the reality you were dreamt with. you have no kin, but your family hasn't been.... you were unhinged
from the stark grim and the tide pool. why do you think i say things that ain't been language but has always been lingua nova ?
why would i lie ? this is the scepter of the vengeful design and the glee demons of first love sipping from a chalice of lost love
with closed eyes. this is the pier and the ocean. the dime store Picasso hanging the velvet Elvis with the perfect circles
with the little
cube inside...

aching for flamingos.

or not.

this dead city is alive with stray cats and missing person fliers, but the locals are dancing
on hardwood floors and [  ferocious yellow drums  ] are striking the black-most
and the back-most star, sinks
it's cleat into
banished sunrise
with  No End
in Sight !

the pride of most eyes,
too blind
to witness the free  
oblivious,
As corn-fed black holes
swallowing the wisdom of crowds... as the unctuous clouds
of our dismay
are ever, ever at play; where the thin pool thickens.
where our blown bubbles French with thick tongues... our open lips
rebuffed to an invisible  sheen.
the running of the Bulls is always an Alcatraz in a Free Will.
we dip into shallow cathedrals
where our Mercies slip through
nausea and dank  

and Islands
of Less Ocean... where
The weakest Archipelago
In a Severed Chain
Of Dreamt
Events

are you

i'm driving a spike to the crucifixion
hurling locust. burning vistas
i'm driving the lightning that strikes on a mission of
some dark mercy
hell-bent to
hit ya

i'm the mark of Cain
on a razor's edge
i'm what Angel's
dread,

I'm No Exit

So forget it.

i stalk lambs
and rainbows
filling coffins
with all your
dreams

on an altar of freakish
gifts
to a baleful
reckoning

i'm no warning.

the tongue
of every bell,
at the feet
of Colossus

clipping rings.

you were walking through the dunes
of slow doom and a dark spasm. you sat with your back to the far lit -
so as to never strain an eyelid at the tapestry
you could not fathom.
striking out again, your head's down where the clouds smelt golden eggs
that never cool.
they burn like you burn
when you burn.
and that's
when you notice the words,
pouring from an incandescent
into the vitriolic grog
of a dark Anubis; pruning the brute fruit
from a stray vine.
canning the flesh in mason jars
as if possessed

back to Life.

we mortgage the unspeakable. we fit small bowls into big ones and speak on misdeeds
that rhyme with chrysanthemum without the letter ' M '.
from an upside-down star

weaving cauldrons of unguarded hope
jiggling in the gelatinous yammering
of a misguided baby god's night terrors  

and you still gotta go to work in the morning.

and for sleep. what's that ?

my days unbraid unjudged
they lurch from lust's tongue to the tip
and emit heaven's hum.  my thousand
is one, with the mercies of a thunderous slake
of thirst... a perpetual affection for your
worst; at best -
You have become
the One twin
of three things. what love has done
to be no thing -
you cannot fathom the pardon of such
human wanting.
but you can nevermore
have affection for summer
in the winter of our languid drum.
my singing comes.
what love has done to be Love
i have done, anon.
i have done all to please the ramparts
of your siege
but remain unloved.

we're almost nowhere. just one more block...
the town clock a white dot with prayer hands and a mute halo
we inveigle the fireflies in our mantis
our mantras throw tantrums in tandem
we polish lanterns and leave chrysanthemums
for Amish sirens.  your wine a thick miasma of phantasms
a Cabernet of rich spasms in the delicate worm
your apple turns.

off again and another alabaster more pale than actual...
the fat uvula pendulum in the dark tower
where the bats nap in ammonia, fuming with green dreams
that turn black the clock, behind the white solemn.
a virtual girl.

an un-promise promised

one hand over your heart
indivisible

halfway.

are you
what i mean ?
are you not my constant mystery and blemish ?
are we not finished when the world turns and nothing loves nothing
so
Now
we fit in ?
now we  have a surface of anger management,
that stings a bit; but no damage.
just roust
of our beautiful lust
from the husk of
our
catastrophe.
are you
what i
mean ?