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.

napping in between a planet and the void
never strikes us as uncanny, but rather; glances
off the blind spot of our soul's eye
merely a shimmer of awe
in a doldrum.

a pinch of ghost in the holy mess.

the wide hips
of the moon
in a box.

june is a fist of botched odds
plodding along... a rube of wise fools
cumbersome.
the long frost of a brief dim
witness to a harm gone
ambergris.

you seem less full.
an entire galaxy of wane suns
lonesome.
it's your mask: my masquerade rules
under some malignant
lush fog

and asked for this.

Fashionably Unexpected*


        the devil had arrived but as the sun was at it's peak
the invitation was for nine, but  in the evening
of next week...
he was naked save the toga, and his flaxen locks of gold
and a massive crop of wings, slightly mussed; -
adroitly posed.

i had just been in the garden, plucking apples from a limb
with my pruning shears and sherry
and no clue it might be him....
but there     i stood astounded,    having thought   -
" I  heard  the  bell ? "

and again
by ' Who'd ' Come knocking
on my mallet chain
from Hell.

the devil held a mirror and a silver box, ornate
with the likeness of a lotus and an acorn
on a plate...
the gilding was perfection, and the mirror was opaque
but the fallen one was flawless
as the smile upon
        his face...

and how i broke the silence in my simple garden threads
was to ramble at the Serpent
as I handed him a Jacket.


Amused by my conceit that any custom i condone
were applied with an epoxy
Only carpenters from Rome, that were spotless and
And from Nazareth
with a Father
and a Ghost -
A Mother without Blemish
and Disciples in a grove...
And blessed be
the Mercy of the Lending
of the glue
by the resurrected Handy Man
and  King of
all the Jews !

The Morningstar obliged!  
But held the blazer
in rebuke
He grimaced His Displeasure
And instantly  
for proof
He dismembered my regalia
and assembled it anew
Into such a splendid Toga
There was nothing
I could do -
but simply     step aside
as all  the sting
had let the ruse.

I received the Prince of Darkness
Wearing gloves and dirt and boots

the brink of dawn clots the milky way
as stars demure and spike. they traipse in the umbra
of an echo rumbling in the drama-sphere, like ghost embers
and dim wicks after the laughing flame has gone missing
and only the tang of dragon's breath -
clings to the weave in the fiber
of Orion's Pelt.

the sky is where god cannot lie, and the heart is a witness

and when that's true
remember
i told you
so.

and repent.

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.

when the quiet is the whisper
gingerly wring the neck of ravens, to sleep deeper.

split the infinity.

give heartache a farthing of your coin, realm-less

spinning in the dithers of your lingering agenda

helpless.

loom oodles of shear joy, dis-attached from farms of promise

a reckless keening in the dreary gloom

of a perfect day.


and caramel apple car-bombs for Halloween.

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.

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.

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 ?

hurling sherpa into the Sun on a rainy day can open your mind
and your children will wander off from your womb... into the next room.
it's the little things that **** you. and the invisible that redeems.
peeling papayas in a prison is still fruit of the doomed.
if you wish to be free -
i suggest you leave
The Pit.

watch out for Mangoes.

the smoke rising off the snow
like the wet breath of hot jewels.
is draped over the dead.
i have no joy where the happy is done.
and all the pilots blotch the tarmac
having crashed into
chrysanthemums.

i am Yorktown and Springhill.
a swathe of feral and ironworks
on a bleached stone
in a pit.
i collude with the sun
and cavort with the moon's sisters.
swelling my coffers with blood
spilled on a Living
Thing.

and i forget.

the long onions nod in the fickle breeze. they etch their slender shade
upon the dizzy grass and the low things crawling. they manage to say
nothing about you as you pass, delighted... but then, you never stroll through Paradise and see onions first thing.
You ponder the steps you take
to get there...
and the apple in your
pocket...

first of all.

We pantomime our sumptuous dirge

That has never known a chord without novas

Or a Nocturne of phrase

Charmed into glissandos

gilded as galaxies

of gossamer, awestruck Thought...

And now

These Arias are all of Us -

Phosphorus Dirth-worms

In dead white apples

In a Cave.

Our elusive orchestra

Polished by ambient clay

To gleam forsaken

and redeemed

Has often curved the flat space

Between The Mystery

And No Church -



Listen

And the melodies

Decipher

The delicate heresies of Love

That you make

With your bare hands

And our separate Hells'

Are but one Heaven

The Devil has to See

To Believe.

give me the coral knife to pinch the glaze of atoms
throbbing in the bin of space, where Time is matter...
cringe in the dismal life of dense days,
and rays of no pattern -
emerging from the afterglow of absolute black
dots
braiding heaven
from a hell,
with no
god.

give me the business    that sees a mark
as redemption.

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.

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.

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.

you were love punked and had those bags under your irony.
you looked good for the guy seen eating his toes
on a closed beach.

she just left.

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.

i am about to be nothing.
on the cusp of a wisp
i am dis-jewelled
and the farthing in my hand
is a clip of my purchase.
to destroy is to be a manling.
i come from dust
and this is the love
that has no name
but claims the cinch of my wrist
'round the throat
of my tulips.

again....

i am made to unmake.
i claw at the virtue of my truth
only to suffer
the cavernous ploy
of my wishful thinking.

you are the sun
that spoke my name
and said "why? "

i am the smoke
in an otherwise
sterile balloon.

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.

you live on the puke star of dumbstruck
you sniff glue,  but stick too a strict code of *******
you're the mule and the contraband
the sweat on a flea.

you're like a radio silence. screaming and ****.

lucky me.

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.

keep me
in your pocket
where you keep your steam
and hemlock engines burning
piston ******
glamorous  
keep me wickedly
kiss you
preach me      pink things  
winking in avalanche harmonies
sink me
get more           my deepening       deep think
pitch fork my blunt tongue
wet  and glistening
keep me whistling peaches
amorous

let me slave into you
like magma petunias teething
on hips and thighs
let me do
but you
do me      

all night  be day break mending the moon beams running through buildings
tearing down the sky by blotting out  the sunlight
threading beads of sweat into a rainbow in the ****
preying  on lips and valleys of
lollipop oysters
let me jolly your
roger

i'm supposed ta !