Mark of Cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.

up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.

and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.

the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample *****. where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.

now " who could that be ? "

agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.

morning slips your beauty in
where i kept my shabby foolishness
and drapes me in such delights, to dim
a nebula of loneliness...

deep fried kool-aid in a purple Intrepid
the scepter of our Grief; falters
the Orion of our Agonies in the Least-ville of our Nova !
i'm about to outshine !
but before i can condemn my most recent assault
on God's little Plan.... I thought i might Jam the Signal
with a volley of Pretension
in the wane Valleys of the Seldom
and the Orange Jews.

i'm in my hard January and your Carnival, rivals my Fantastic...
you'd rather my dark be sunlit travesties, to Parade before the court of Desire
behind  a chain-linked rinse. these snowflakes
are  the ones with teeth.

not the ones you meant.

blue whales can hear us Dying, from Here.
And You still Think i love you

the haggard crags of our elliptical wards against a Pleasant Breakfast
the scuttled broth of  sour tyranny and Nonsense
you abscond with -

the virtue of our wizardry, aligned with Hostile Invalids
From Beyond !

have i said much ?

have i begun to plunder the tripwire epiphany
of the rogue star from the Unknown ?
I'm in my hard January and the Spring in Winter's failing
is a Crossing.

And a Dread

we stroll the orchard
where grapes prune
and apples dutch
the burgeoning ****
of our memories...

we remain shimmering in true dusk. there
on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies
of a sliver of first bone
with tornado lips
and cotton
random.

we cajole our misfortune,
and rise at noon; without laughing -
we ****** our hags from the raven
that feathered our cap.
we elapse with the dead
in the basement of our rendering.
a little ahead of ourselves
or dead, no matter what.
the orchard glooms a demise
in the calm tourettes
of our syndrome...

both alone in the teeming all-spark
of our glorious sundering...
our Mondays say less than
our Present Day -
and a yarn of plight and sunstroke
gropes at the  barb
of our bee stung
innocence

we chide the withering
for all the Withering -
and all the good
it does....

besides.

we wrath glide the plum

then have at Life.

I found the lost chord
in my Larynx. Now it's
tucked away
safely in a shoebox
of horrors
and saltwater
taffy.

Jupiter is a dead fist. But i am lately disembarked in your parlor. loving farce.
you are twinkling in the chamber ***. you pay rent.
but i am hately, loving instruments of accidental art.
This poison is the only one that loves you.
a superman, afraid of how brittle
your Memory Lane.

shed a tear into a Grecian urn
then write your name in a drift of salt.
siphon fog from the lip of a needle
and with a lump of coal
draw blood.

tip glaciers into a lake of fire
and dive in.
caste a pinch of deep
into the shallows of your human heart.
tell the truth -
you can't remember
it's name
then be redeemed.

then tell redemption, it never understood you

at all.

i'm the cinnamon star-struck lotus-eating speck  
on your windshield... driving out the demon
in your blind-spot
guess you can see me too... but you'd rather not yet
that'd be too real... diving like walking
is what  'other people'  do
but we're not... anything less
at all the
parties

kiss me and i'll be fine.
but if i
know you -
and i think
i do
then this
don't mean i love you
( Love You )
it only means
i could

Eternal...like fruitcake and the sky

you cannot finish need.
it fiends in wretched globes of dwarf
swelling to tremendous  steam
a Bacchanal of vineyard borscht
a moonlit morsel of demolished dreams...
we serve at the pleasure of the absurd
gilding shadows with clay confetti
and the nictitating membranes of blue crocodiles.
and blank verse.

felling the Yggdrasil, by all means; you maraud the larder
in the night kitchen; nicking blackbird-pies and pinky-russet salamanders
[ the loose farthing ] and the hard liquor... all gone now
your potato sack, rakishly slung from the shoulders of an Atlas, entitled ' Promised Land; betrayed '.

a new map shrugging off old kings from dead valleys
revealing the hour of your worthless estate,
in-lieu of the boundaries of your lost holdings. unhappily -
you inherit the unripe peach
in a hound's mouth.
you slouch rough,  slowly
to your beast
of a couch:

there, to remain unholy and due South.

there, to remain unknowing
by all account.

all summer in your face
green yes, would suit you, but your brown
unwatered lawn eyes delicious-
a dry wind in a plain
state

your black hair rising
like a tornado on your scalp
a day at a time
marvelous.

you tease me and ****** my weakness
with all of your summer
my day sweats beneath you

my night and your music
commanding my heartbeat
to make adorable
prisons

for a mockingbird.

Polaris in the eastern sky, intertwined with the gallop of gargantuan and the heathenous whimsy of untired daily life...
the gross note of our chorus, rushed through the tube of time in long haste of a brief reply.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ride. the callous pompadour of our fashionable hate
and the rake in the face gag, with all the right people
to betray you.

an asterisk in the tween of your teeth, with the casserole lights and the marvelous crushtones of your raving denial.
the most goon of your impunity, lewdly. the fresh ruin of your mind in the wrong place for the least why.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ignite ! but yet the breadth of our complete meaning bewilders late
into the hour
of our
hour

by the minute.

cool outside and we glide through the crowd like leather smoke and charm.
arm in arm we stroll. with old souls, younger than ourselves. it's sublime -
as we change our perspective. we shadowbox with our past regrets
but we paddle upstream to our extremely good.
we are two, blushing in the embers
of almost perfect.

then we kissed.
that kiss tumbled from our lips
in languid waves of heat and ' yes '
it torched our comfort zone
and left sage and sandalwood
twixt the tender toes
of our not so snail's pace.
my hand on the side
of your new face.

facing we.

you stainless steel
stain-maker.
a hate-lump of drums, wicked.
stick it too your browbeat
widget
of precise niggling...
ink links -
to kerosene. and scribe farce
for the disabled.
but wrap it up in
' what's up ? ' .
but
get unstuck
on
other people.

sheepskin
your grey wolf. and -
leap shins and fair maidens.
skip **** that's too
mythic.
reel-in your best
wishes.
for weak wishes
ditch *******

So wish strong;

and
all day long,
you should rob
lightning
and come
wit
it !

be
exactly
the right wrong thing
to catch
fire

most likely.

[ so dig it ]


hide your feather in your cap
where your head
might be.
and your macbeth
has a
happenstance
for a sequel

and a meaning.

be in-betweening
and lost
chapters.

[ be these
things ]

but bring the
laughter.

last about a day
and i got somethin'
fo' ya

still immaculate.


just lean back
a bit.

and that'll be the bit
you're
after.

Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars      that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.

" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction  on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.

Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked

with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.

Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen  
harps

ones -  he stole,  to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
****,  [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...

lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;  
Locked on
One of
God's.

like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.


II

Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****.
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his  toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard;  and wake the dead
asking  them for new songs
to set    their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks  
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or  someone
knocks.

As if  "Hello."  
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...

she plots your course but let's you plot your coarse
and  mavericks stammer in the haze-what? of her misadventures...
save those who plus.
if you must know, then you are obsolete... you may repeat the same **** questions
and flee elite. you may squander your whimsy
in shunt courts, and bind your Thoom !
you may chum the waters, some sharks shun
in favor of clear doom
of stayed
tongue.

you may this all, or remain
or remain,
young.

They sell sandwiches and little nightmares with vanity inside.
i glide to a booth and schmooze the next wet group of compromised -
And Charlotte's web
of insular jokes,
snare me from outside my comfort zone...
and i own the green eggs and ham of our sepia tone in the septic lake
of our laughing groan.
We enjoy the view.
I drink to be We and Apart from you.
But the kegs dredge.
They plunder the blunderbuss of our best shot. With Silencer.
We crowd loudly in the Big Easy of our modern strife.
We scrape with dull Lives,
save those with sharp Eyes that see spigots
as unseen Blithe !
We gather in the Hemisphere of our Wanton Anonymity,
as divulged mirrors
in a House
of Cards....

All of my Best Jokes
are Friends
With hearts....
and Then
some...

sand
cherry blossom
vintage clothing
poem
grass...

You Are These, My Love.

like a fairy
is like a dark-eyed Junco, twitter-pated in snowfall apocalypse
like a painter's palette, engrossed in the notion
of gone from me. like chocolate. a sun down
feathering our bed.
like water and thunder
blasting sand
through the blossom
of my cherished -
cherishing.

a
vintage
ache
clothing the naked risk
of my honest poesy.
like the grass roots of joy
fairly gaming the
opaque eye -
of some rara avis-
blinking outside Caravaggio
palette...
a
deep cocoa
of divine waters,
that flood the ludicrous
of your charms
like austerity
is plush

our heart's are vintage clothing

and we must.

what's a metaphor like ? do you simile -
the way I am a valentine ?

or do you
love
me
?

deluge

[ ? ]

surge
into the plinth
of your
monument.

i
will catch you.
my hands are like all things -
eager to please your
marble nape.

in recline
you hoist heavens.
in love's
shape.

Not all Pianos dirge a grace
or sworn to fire; come undone with all suffering
a mile and a mile.
You never love enough
the anguish that a blossom pollutes.
you have your vision and a contradiction  
and a smile
aloof.

and no one.

docking on the fringe of a dry spot
the rain died in...
i set sail in solemn siroccos, fraught
with endive and lemons...
no chop. flat listing in the leaning theme
impervious to words lost
my ship dips in clean drink
and dark thought.

away, my anchor prods starboard
planks of salt wood...
clangs in a grog of lurching halt
raw *****. mauve tossed - and shriek blind.
a pennant of mock cause.
a scant curl of smoke, seized
in unseasonable Hypnos.
a whimsical Charybdis -
a thing i choke on.
i scoff
cough a terrible pen
my inkwell, topped off
with black pond,
quill qualms
of love's
dross.

the serenity of my tempest
and the skipping stone it cracked,
now, white sharks, prowling the yonder
of the nearby,
in debt to a far gone, yawning
rings,-
concentric to the naked eye, you clothe not.
lest the raiment be
the Emperor's
new lot.

A Stitch of Odyssey In Epic Fail...
to get more gone, but less lost

a journey of a single step
begins because... and
just because
you stop

stopping.

drowning in your absolute **** me.... i'm less alive !
I dive into the waste of our Time misspent on my older youth
to squander the audacity of my bad faith in you.
how long ? Long by two and then some. held for no ransom
my handsome gifts, fetid in the breach of an angel's unsound siege
[ a little late in the day to be  ] but your love kills boys on the cusp
of manly things with a soft heart -
and twice ******. ***** fiend, no more !
more of a joke in the clog of your humid rust agenda
in this war.
my friends call you " ***** "
but you have ever been -
called  " you ".
what creation has installed
into your core, to most corrupt, distinctly more !
a bath of false in a sea
of course chores
for your Herculean
false adore.
i Love less all
the more !

now
prowling your disconnect, we fret, but you slay best
my dragons at the door.
you strive ! more alive when
this beautiful is more defiled
and your culprit ******, lapsed
in fret and guile.
you amass the serene
into pits of unsworn fealty.
you pledge the wretch
of your false
to the Truth of my Cause
and Defect.
Yes! Yes!
Yes!

and I find you wanting.

And found  
no one.

if you **** me with your robots that chant tempests in pottery barns
you might look the fool who vanquished a perfect slave
free to disobey your stupid self hatred.

if you had the use of both lungs, and clung to fathoms of shallow harm
no harm but love's arm
clasping embraceful of your
lost god, would come
to you

if this were the writ that hit veins in your extravagant cairns
stick to your guns; adhere to the wound

damage done.

loving you relentless, maladaptive to dem bones.

[From Fragments,  The Following...]

... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.


... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth.  The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.


... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.


... and that's how the rain gets in.



[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]


What ?

dog wire fury in the rough hewn sun
and the mild disasters we come from
and the wheels of squarely nowhere,
yup.
some of our broken
English
sinking a  
King's Ransom
in the hard pan
and
polishing
the mud
of a Drought....

in the rain.

at the cafe on ruby toes and sugar pinch, we consent and reap the valdez of our perpetual cud.
we sip from octagonal spoons. there, we suture the fiend to the deed and the rail
to the runaway train. how else would you explain your dashing about
in the chum of our castanet. we cast our nets in the epibenthic  fumes of our unusual loveliness
and sweat the little things that vanish from the canon our interesting.
hup to it. vie for the offshore drill.
suppose you grow a dead thing and keep it astonished with flashcards
and nobody says a thing ?

in the mink pith of our dismal mints and our Charlatan  hearse fights
in the twice dark vice of our daffodils
you linger effervescent  in the marmalade  plans
of mice and gin.
you march men into your womb like pixie dust and Ebola.
there, in the devious whiskers of your manticore
i have found you naked and bereft of kin.
an oodle of gimp where the soul
had been, and the gas lights off the marsh
unclean.

the vivid hork of your dead albatross, pondering the hink of your discontinued love.

my codpiece has mobbed the boundaries of good taste
and pickled the tail on the mule of my magnificent waste
and i've coughed up a dime of your tripe in my damage
so leave me the methadone  and please please please
manage.

here. hand This to your ludicrous drool.
pool the view from your ***
into the solid miasma
of your shameful
truth.

give back the cancerous hustle
of our demented clutch !
and much be the flowers
that curse
you

for lying, waaaaaaay to ******* much.

in the valley of our anon
you're not the only... but that's not your  " what ? "
you venture forth of course
with less mad meter but plenty.
you gem your brevity
with terse goiters. you force no order of magnitude
to enforce your oblique corners.... your poetry
has it's druthers.
but alas -
we humans lack the knack to be twice true.
we acknowledge our  acknowledgement
and stake claims we claim
we name true
and I've met you
in the cyber what
of our collective
****. the happy  naked !
we rumpus in the gizzard
of a lost gator.
wrecking the Ruxpin
of our Teddy Rosey
welts.

Poets Know Who Hurt Happy and Joy The Next.

we are well met, yes.

rickety  minutes twitch in wood stained cabinets;
mittens in a bin .  birch tones postpone in mauve
twilight... an unfinished diorama.
clandestine. a small glitch in a good rain... cabbages
smitten in mist.  a thirst groaning; long bones caw
fully reclined...  as timeless Brahmans.

old beams of light stack like gold bricks in a humidor;
mittens in a bin.  black  birds comb rogue stones then.... [ pause ]
triffids... blemish barnacles.
crystalline. a ball of lint in a storm drain... vanishes -
bitten out of sight.  at first, toning old gongs... wind
chimes... earth's most wanted.

in the dark honey, the knees of bees and afterthoughts coagulate in burnt gold and warm blood.
the air is made of dander and random. the dog barks a virus you check for fleas. and the north star -
is violent. in the blemish of symmetry, the ruling class of ravens, flock to your discord,
they adorn your wretched gorgeous. they engorge the zenith
of your curse.
javelin happy, the stab behind the eye that sees too deep is delight's dagger !
the imminent ruse of a persistent Truth and an eternal Lie.
the  Macbeth in your chicken soup.

and the Soup.

the glockenspiel of our daily raid of sewers in heaven
and our Jovian dwarves appalling the rapturous capacity of forever and ever.
the kooky jingle of our serpents, darning socks for the antichrist
and our elaborate rats. the simple maze of our condition
in the hell were at. the creaking gate to a twilight
and a lost chapter
marooned on an
island
of undead Librarians.
starving for brains
tardy with the
Harold
Robins

knife in red breast.

three hours before i knew i loved you, i loved you.
i was devout moss on the lea of the stone, where the unicorns died of laughter
and the wild things slept. i was unreasonable. god knew i had no you -
now ' there you are ! '
a sprite of brisk cooling hell's beauty where the goth is real enough
you broke the spell of some other heart
and i was all ready there
when you were.

three hours before you knew you loved me, you was me.

girls are made of glass crickets and sunshine. they eat words that float.
they wear shoes that hate feet. girls talk.
girls are made of dark secrets and kudzu. they seep through your ghost.
they wear moods. they play deep.  
girls are soft.
girls are soft bombs with long nails, painted.
they buy clothes. they wear food on their hips. they impair speech.
girls know that's ironic. girls dance naked to pay for college.
some learn from it.  others tarnish.
girls are made of everything that's wrong with you.
they have eyes
that sing babies
to sleep

that can **** you.

we were older then. you with your horn-rimmed glasses
sleek as Hermes, resting on your button nose; dazzling.
your eyes were smoldering echoes, far off on a quest for
visions. mine
were nowhere
to be seen.
we poured over volumes of antiquity, blazoned with rich
art. Faustian marvels, leather bound and noble.
we traipsed the gallows of Dry Humors, lording it
over the gremlins of our isolation.
we had not been formally introduced and everything
was formal. we haunted the halls; our school of fish eyes
sparkling; weaving like serpents in the heather on ether.
we roamed the hallowed ground on secret missions
without Love.

then i asked you out. and changed the world.