These Furies that laugh in their sleep
are the last to be reached
in a chasm.
To repel from oblivion's lip
and Have at 'em As atoms have
Nothing to cling too
And That Matters.

These Furies that die in their sleep
Are polite to at least keep the last spasm -
Hapless as a Trivial list Of Mad Pattern...
Though that Lantern Has Nothing to shine through -
And light scatters.

These wounds that laugh at sleep
They weep in a Keep Where the Night gathers.
Shelves of elaborate Script
Of a Myth of " Had Happened "

These eyes that dine on Sleep
They reap the breach Discretely Haggard...
The last gasp of Ice Nip
A tad Sadder...And That Saturn
has Ice Lanterns
More dark gladly
As Had
Phantoms.

Soft rain has fallen
And tiny jewels are fastened to the landscape.
Succulent prisms lay strewn about
And the night sky hums.
Fumbling branches, the North Wind has apples
Falling to the damp earth -
A 'thud' becomes a murmur in the lush,
A blanket of dead leaves
Absorb ripe fruit
And clouds part, revealing the full moon
A blush of white lights
Sparkle in the wet eyes of stray dogs.
The Milky Way... gilding creation
With Giants the size of pinholes
In a black melon.
Between low hanging clouds, a billion worlds burn.
And earthworms, born without eyes...
Look up.

To marvel at the Heavens as they drown

a bit faded, i cruise through loose threads in my argument.
i recoil from dimwits that flip wigs and false coin.
i join the null set of lost clubs on main street, discreetly -
but strut like a peacock in leather feathers,
for non -boys...
so many
girls.

i'm in two worlds,
but **** if she don't fit in, pro bono.
she knows what i don't know, like a book spout of lovely.
my bones lend juice to the stew of her gifts, when she'll have me.
but luck gets cut and what not, and better fellas
rob joy from so
many worlds

they're Cuckoo.

i snip pearls
for this
one.

my intentions are
sincere
if not

see-through.

my love is that love
swerving in novas, gobsmacked and gibbering...
a funky cuss of lust
oblong in the short run
sprinting to horizons of forgotten doves;
cooling heel and grind-
in peat moss
of mauve thoughts; so lurid you could find them
in pitch dark.

my love is the love
that chinks your armor.
the  soft clang of a raging Kismet
port of your starboard !
i am in love with you
and this thing

is  "mostly harmless "

are those lips for me ? how my hope is so. my lust love is furnace lovely and you are so you.
bring both and be done. be done with roaming the geometries of lonely and the pith of stone fruit.
be glued to my all. attach your splendor to my wheels of joy and surround my demise
with renewal.

do this for me
and i'll be
doubloon.

why do we stumble through the rude Klute of our drama ?
what's the frequency, Kiefer ?
do you want to go bonkers in Yonkers by way of Midwest,
and an all false promise ?
are we dead
comets ?

i might give you this. but you won't change. we have new ways of getting the pain in.
are you aware of the practical agony of our bliss-less gloom ? our two rooms a-jumblerumpskin ?
we live in the crease of at least two invalids. but you steal cake and i witness. ****, i've been this
nitwit who had a mind but squandered the perils of success in a losing myth. i was a shut in
over the moon of my misadventures. tucked into jupiter sugar with my hair clean.
but my fear out.

cold duck luck. the fat of the lamb on the lean.
your off chill in the summer of your spring... your walking doom.
our entire thing.
your baritone four letter word for ******.
you grab. your elaborate hoax is the norm and the wyrm.
the reveal is apart. a part of your madness is my heart
but we love to regret.

i'll forgive you when you're next.

i will never be one of you
if you are false. i have changed. forgive me.
i am not you and,
have ever been the other -
but my love is true.
the kind of true that gathers at your heel.
the sleepy one that wakes you, dream-scamp.
i am alive in the way of my father.
a new thing; Anubis and falling.
you are the herd.
and i'm not
sorry.

just in love with you.
and that's my
calling.

winter is an ice peach. a nice drink of bitter stalling.
a sip of forget with a remembrance.
a tall dwarf star fawning
over wonders -
but no wonderment.
a ginger snap in crisp air bleeding.
a June with two moons.
one for the *****.
another for the ***** in you.
the American dream
you can't sleep through.
but wish
too.

the wish
you
can't see,
but seem
too.

my anonymous
tendency
to be
you.

and the rift.

a dead trumpet, resting on the desiccated lips of a fallen angel, a desolate scorch of hemispheres
blasted and puerile...
primal dross from the furnace of all agonies and heaps of time, hoarding hours in pain to multiply the bias to ill fates as a happiness, her madness has never known
[ on the inside ]

a dread comet, branding the optic nerve of a blank stare
into oblivion
in a closed loop of integrals of self hatred
outlasting the venom of god's scorn, by an order of magnitude
her blight, dwarfing the locust swarm of dead suns
bleeding black ink in journals that document her heart's delirium, in crude states -of silent rage at a billion decibels
[ on the white page ]

a barn door, torn from the hinges of a tempest and marble goats, chiseled from a monolith of dark thoughts
to be sacrificed on the altar of pitch dark
there are sigils that burn in the dense fog, and everywhere a banshee of rogue hope and a siren of fine dreams....
and here there be oceans
[ and no map ]

legions of invisible hornets living in every atom of two red lips

lips that would kiss and be kissed
but seldom disembark from tar pits and windswept tragedies
and fell words that plunder her true thoughts for anything
toxic enough to **** the conversation with a lost god...
bilious fountains of lost joy
sterilize a pregnant pause. and yes
aborts the spirit

[ from no throne ]

Flecks of violet, patch-quilt  loofah skin of  sponge-green iris, gold dusted
Emerald  eyes... wet stones in flesh tone, parachute baskets; paratroop lids
Descend... thin paradigms slip ; adrift upon a Seam of Tears. A saline Sea - with
Glass floor; lensing starlight over mint pink trampolines
covered in tiny copper filings,

And two Black Pools that Expand.
Two Sunbathing Night Blossoms -

Dead center. Unmanned...

Her cheekbones encroach upon Cataracts of Vacancy.
Lipid lathes of Lethe ; lips departed... red zeppelins, moist and mute . pontoons
Plump and mindless. Bee stung -
Open.

Soft mimes, glide
Over bleach and stain; over -
bone white; glide
Over Nicotine sigils, hiding -
in off-white
Enamel...

like anonymous petroglyphs for Dentists.
or Rosetta Stones for a lethargic Tongue.



II


Theta-wave turbines, throw rods and spark nods ... as others speak.
She resembles a dream-catcher’s mitt.
Words hiss now, and solid mist, twist the tell o' gram.
Into Fable's Armada !

Fog.... fog rolls in...   She rolls in, Beneath  a New Between. of Chasms
Hazardous grammar spasms, stammering -
Deaf tones of Diction -
All This ....In the Good Ear.
An Ear Of Cornucopias Delete.... The Dry Cob
Of  Annulled
Speech. [ but Morphine ]

Maybe a half-dozen kernels of distinct cream ; velveteen vague...
Or vivid - pleats in pure radiation.
?
Perhaps,  varicose inanities are expiation enough to drown a Kraken ?  Maybe God Happens ?

Let Ampule be the Judge.  Let Pack Mules be Priests.

As Others speak, Our Lily,  decrypts languidly left of linear... dislodged -
from Lexicons ....with long Odds, Against...
She Relents, Relentlessly-  And Utterly

Utterly Regardless...

She aborts pregnant ( .... )
pauses.

All this Fog rolls in... Agnostic.
She Robs
The Cuckoo... She De-bones the Soup
with Disjoint Comments.
And Scuttles
The Broth.

She's all Starlings and Polaroids.... Savage Pinwheels  and Aurora Vandals.

She's  All Plasma...
And Rapture -
with No Handles ...

She's Both Ends ... Burning
NOooo Candle .

A Wee Atlas; Shouldering A Loss
Ever Since Her World  
Was  Dismantled ..  A  Burden ( ... )
Lily
Phantom
Shrugs  

And Random Drugs..Atlantis.

the doom puke treacle of our dim sum sundays, asunderous.
the bluff of our taurus. the trim thumb, green on the terrace
of our epiphanies; wondrous.
the crease in the pleat of our borealis. the allusive chalice
of our majesty. the dead kingdoms we relinquish to the roiling unjoy.
the thunder of our feet to the heel of a shadow. our peter pan in the fire.
our kettles black.
the opposable lovelies. the lovelies that preen jewels. the extreme youth of our gods
now at the hour of our foolishness. our funny bone. and the fracture.
the actual damage to our heaven. and the near after.
the gross bloom of our anguish
and parade.

and the bells. and the comma. and the laughter.

I do
but i dim switches
Jilling Jack and much else
smelting the river
of black nectar
your heaving *******
have rest
upon.

Ooze the Unforgivable night
a shade less bleak
than a Season
Of open
wounds.

Sell me your secrets;  and I'll be the one
to arrive, electric
tripping on your
scene

like a moth
to a blink
And
otherwise.

i used to love...
but now i grouse about it
i stammer in the wake of my oblivion and suffer bliss no more.
i'm grounded. you are far  too keen a villain.
you are dead last in haste
to revenge my unkempt village.
i hate your name
but praise it.
at least
i use
to.

now watch my heart unclaim it.

a quatrain is not a tomb. it's an altar of cellulose and low merchants chanting.
we sell the individual curses of our seldom mirth. songs sting as they must -
for they must not !  if they will not hurt...
if they will not be beautiful, for the asking.
a poesy is a feast.
a revenant of our choosing, unless you had no choice.
i am the receptacle of This voice; and solve ridicule with ranting,
just because.
i fuzzy the logic to inspire the haggard hopes of our refrain; unrestrained.
remaining on vigil,
i mark the stars passing in a waking slumber -
with a fool's mask. and a talent's masking.
i am the urge.
how my mind works is my heart's domain.  a wrench in the parsley we hardly; i daily.
i parsnip the rube barbs of a bards assemblage.  i revisit Atlantis.  Polaroid pics -
with graining.  with irony
i photo
shop.

a quatrain is not a tomb, but a rarity,
as we say new the old things
that make us
we.
for i, for one
am one.
i continue
from no sum
and eventually
add up
to something
because -

why not ?

your day begins and the meter ticks in the hiss-clink
you drink lead stars with scotch; you invite mauve.
you get sunset and howling dogs. your grog slogs
through a barrage of failing day. your beauty un-dwindles
and all is love for most days
you invade the empathy of my village with your soft pillage.
but it's the miracles that settle
for idiots
like
the rouge
hope
daybreak
on a break
in the
skin

or your
heart.

your beauty un-dwindles. and i

all at once.

pour your aneurysm into my palm and i will love you so hard
be glad. this love is nothing more than tremendous, however
you might have Doric columns, where i have Ficus
but you're a ***** stone, a-swarm with ivy
a mind reading astronaut
i ought


and a
cat.

the scream come from daffodils and parchment wrapped around dead fish
and demi-loaves of lunacy at new moon
succulent remedies to what not
and whatever... you remain altogether opulent in your nonchalance
whatever you wanted is dust; but you're not in France
you're maimed in false lies
of the ripple...
you're the noose garnet
swinging from the harpy's tongue
an impolite brigand
in the hate place
of your
miff.

and for what ?

be sure you haven't locked the cat outside.
you know how much that annoys the cat.
but sometimes you do it on purpose.
and when you burn your toast
aren't you mad ?
it's like a special mad
reserved for burnt toast.
in an hour, if you hurry
you'll already be ten minutes
late. it's like you can't catch up
to what you believe in
at the speed of doubt.
can you hear me?
is this thing on?

I've been there but i can't tell you how to leave.
it's your move.
how many times do i have to tell you
it's your move ?

the mind is a terrible thing
that springs
to mind.

so terribly beautiful.

why are you so lovely and not mine ?
this, i cannot say;  but you linger.
my love enjoys no one.
but you.

why are you ?

are you the god you believe in ? does this blood soothe you so ?
are you not a bullet ? are you not not mine ? are you serious ?
why so ?
do you cleave to your wicked  grace like uranium chanting Oppenheimer ?
are you safe where you are and can i say " goodbye " really ? for once ?
how deep are your shallows ? can we drown the noise precisely, my love ?
are these questions enough to see me from ?
and where are you gone ?
you're so gone...

am i there ?

that leather skin beehive humming in the Hamptons
is just like the ziggarat ghettos of Compton
a fob on a boil on the face of your hidden face
and  a stab at your entrails from the inside; commonplace -
Romans demure to your architect
you'll have your symmetries before breakfast...
let no one forget.

gorgeous ****** suns, gallant in emptiness
a horde of unfettered lovelies, spawning petulant ***** to other *****
a lull of ponderous, a bead of serene, swimming in hot pink mist
and peppercorn wavy gravy.
i slay these dragons to form new words
that Oodle your frenzy
and keep you
for mine .

hello Edvard.  i have no umbrellas for your armaments .
only your conspiracy and the last *******, ink dark thinking.
bright charlatans engrossed in their glib de menthe.
no harm in it.
only your heresy is more beautiful than blinking. wink dark slinking -
into frightful. hooligan moons blast evening. again, we miss.
no heart in it.

i cracked the code. god'll forgive me. ' you ' shut up ! do not cross
where the scarabs calf their adders
be more black than the last
vast strip of night
across miles and miles
of wide expanse
be more
advanced and
water tight.

have we met ? seems so. you got them elastic rainbows i know you from
and that outskirts of pure idyll... you throttle the ominous pond of our requited aplomb.
we enjoy beetles.
this is how love chips away at the decade of obscure lesions. the reverse forward to a back-hand eclipse in a blithering idiot of genius. unkempt.
a bone rug.
the skim milk of human kindness, blinds the unicorn and the cabbage lichen
florescent in the mildew parchment of evening's attire.
i'll be here at the met, less attending but haunting the fiberglass whispers of your recent events.
the ones you left. left to their own devices. our every crisis is kind myth, crushing the throat of our adversary. as we pluck shamrocks in the way of our luckless fathers.
we alter the plausible cause with our audible launch
of not rockets.
where the air...
the air don't sing.
but you ain't been there
really

anyway.

At Nineteen Miles An Hour, Smoking On A Train

chugging along the lilacs of twilight in the plasma darkening of a stretch
we fetch the improbable road to our destination. we give a ****. but the birds are listening.
and that might lead to luggage. so much, you might sweep the light fantastic
into army hats. you might march a sustained coup on your hopeless epiphanies.
at nineteen miles an hour, on a train... you see your god.
are you too light to darken the right words
to a happy demise?

are your zeroes at odds?

the size of you now from way back here my dear
you may not know but let me tell you... how you fill the pavilions with your ether whiskers
and your sumptuous mask. the all night habit of your ring finger's habit.
the flinch of your dashing rabbits.
you might be breathing something from monte carlo.
but your flames flamingo. yooouuuu don't even know the half... but the whole thing reeks of pablum
and bamboo shoots. illustrious pulp. you are not the virtue that you want
as much the virtue that you lack. the size of you now
from way back here, is merely the reticule of god's ******
with the rubber-room bullets and the nice lighting.
you have wind chimes in your wrinkles again.
are you that much gone from nod
as you might seem steam
on a roof of a low owl
atop giant
mouse ?

winter has crept from it's cathedral with it's blue loom of white sod
against black crows and over-coats. we awaken in our separate pause
and modify our crumpets with thin icing,
drizzled over moon faced scones -
as golden as your marmoset of port wine
and wrinkled wheels of cheese...
at a moment's notice.
you float through the open window where crescendo the crisp winds and the bacon fats
rendering in the musk of firewood, oaking the nose of the decanted day
the early hearth of heaven, now powder blushed and rustle thrum
with skylarks larking in the luminous icebox
of barely sunrise.
your eyes sparkle and my antlers score the aspen bark
on a lost acre of our thickening plot.

we love a lot.

those are very sharp apples. bobbing for catheters and chasms have their own parabolas  
or might you think your urchin skin; the pinnacle of passive violence
in the **** kingdom of your vibration
in the valley of our entropy.
the Either Nor'easter
of our zero degrees
West.

Due South of Sound Reason.

the locals call  " the sound "
where the heads pool the dark waters of our consciousness
and eddies abide beneath the radiant dirge
of sweet sweet life, and  singing blue whale pods in the dodgy brush-fires
of our Marianas Trench-coat Lining
the vocals explode the random and un-cloaked , it disappears as phenomenal
and all men seize the kelp beds of our delirium
with bashful wisdom.

I press my lips against your wet yes! and all this is January-nettles for jam.

for all seasons.

velveteen ruins cluster hush the horizon
smearing dusk and warp across the frog croak fracas
of the outer wilderness, where the buildings disassemble
the domiciles of dank and drab. where no maidens
await rescue. just the desolate hub  
of wilt and bane. towers felled by iron claws
and engines of rake and drain. our progressive diaspora
of un-living things. the faint jewelery of our banshee
before swine.
dead of night prone... while reading  ' Confessions Of A Hope Fiend '
we are leery of our tiny Thames
but dredge our Vistas
for humming
bugs.

i used to be like you. now i'm like me. and then some.
been some fun . with only
one sun and
one moon to run from
when the sky
is people
and all steeples
are non-flyers
we have priors
but know
porcelain and sea-foam.
been undone.
and  
dead of Night
prone.
of no use
and no fun. on one lung.
for two
demons.
thems that be numb be numb ones  and not none that feel some.
they feels none. and not one shuns but
some be done with one love. and then some...
then someone's
the next no one
and then
what ?

in a lurch, on a perch of impossible spring
i confessed to a winter
that sent you
to me

i could do
with much less
than the nothing
you bring
if you loved all the blood
that i let you
drink

if you
killed  me, more gently
than leaving
me be...

or
forgot
how to
come back
from
nowhere,
it
seems...

that a
beautiful curse
on my
head
is your thing

and an eye
less  evil
is only
an
eye
i can't
see.