yes. glow and be more so... be this sweet and this sour.
be alive more than your casual death.
rise from the chamber of your stars
and never leave me where
your ghost
has kissed me
the least.

Moon precisely ineffable
Engulfs a skyline's silhouette with threads
Of shadow and meticulous
Magenta.

A grain of Night and color, smoothly pollinate
Metropolis and Heathrow
With crush velvet promise, all around
The denouement-
Of half related constellations
Anywhere.

In the meantime, there is Nothing.

A scarecrow made of glass...

An atmosphere of clarity
Deliverance and Rebus...

Bright and Dreary motion
And Darkness, everyone...

Darkness.

that's
what I get. a clump of just you
and an adorable
hell.

And on the Box it said...."Hello. We are Razor Blades.
There are five of us to a box. We do not know who you are
but we are interested in anything that God has made.
We are five of us, and in this box
we have been sharp,
but it's funny, we can't seem to remember
how dull your life is....Without Brand New Razor Blades
manufactured in Germany and five to a box.
We thought you looked familiar but we all agree
that we're exactly like the world.
The World is Sharp. Manufactured in Germany
and five to a box.
Well, whoever you are, thank you
for startling us from the twinkly dreams of Razor Blades.
We got lost there once. The five of us.
And we forget the details now; But anyway...
We are not the revelation. We come in peace
and it ***** to be you in your prime.
Shackled to a raven
that remembers nothing has a purpose
when the bloom is vibrant and the world
is loathe to give a ****. But we digress.
Surely we've met before...But you didn't speak.
You were thinking.
What were you thinking ?

Rinse in cold water. Use Wisely.
Thank you for buying Brand New RazorBlades!

As the sky is removed from my feet
Be Good. And notice how the world remains unoccupied
however you manifest your Destiny... at best you get
Colonized by a Hoard of pure nonsense, with your own petard
hoisting the very Circus Tent of your Memoirs
and the footnotes we are actually
Plus the stars crossed and lost teeth...
a brute force merigold in a plucked grief
chiseled from the Bedrock of god's blunders
as we torment the perpetual Enigma
How we insist upon the faculty
without Divine consent ! we plunder the lumbering atoms
of our daily bread... salting the rim of sleep
couched in the misery of our very little Joys
while cursing Angels that fall on swordplay
and The Play is the very thing
your Father warned you
about
an uttering to con you from your bliss -
to best entangle the witchcraft of your sundered Love
and the shriveled thing your heart craved
when it was Good Night.
But nothing left
to **** a mocking  
bird.

the martial art of winding up somewhere
you mastered long before you noticed
and you were

There

just before you arrived to get the shivers
thinking this had just ( recurred )

Just Now.

oh i don't know so much as i don't know.
you can never tell... even if you say so.
but
you can always repeal.
silently though.
i have no idea.
we both get
no vote.

we're just moving the furniture
i call you Mildred -  
the walls plastered with snow and garters
we shuffle through
remains...

through
The Aperture
of Unseemly
Disquiet.

beneath the weight. the waiting and the ever churning grief.
however changed in my human skin
still too human for a civil tongue, too unforgiven to go a day
without persecution.
cloaked in new love's grace, with an ardent heart

and yet unclean... i embark to scale the impossible wall.

and what burns me down
is what i love.
it holds no water in the riverbed
that leads to the Truth
of Me.

II

this weary soul crawls on hands and knees
until it stands and screams, " i have not done thee harm this very day ! "
splayed beneath the grim shadow of a mutilated intention
driven out and whipped like an unrepentant fool
to the slaughterhouse of your constant doubt
and haste to take offense.

there is no safety to love freely and at ease.
only the vigilance of a paranoid -
love-sick as a sick dog
choking on a crust of
dread.

never allowed to rise from the dust i have forsaken
for true love to love thee more.
never allowed the grace of a lapse in my perfection
for perfection is the prerequisite for true forgiveness
in a war with a wounded angel.

so I remain
too human for love.
too human
to not be condemned
constantly.

ever the man on his knees
praying to a spiteful thorn
in his side.

never worthy.  never saved*.

the wind was swinging from the trees
and mute gulls overhead, slipped in the blue above
swarming the beachfront... gulping salt and silver glints
flapping in their gullets with black eyes
and no dreams.
i walked the causeway and the off road
juggling the change in my pocket with an absent mind.
i turned corners that were never there
and came to a halt as the sun bleached the horizon.
I thought that Beauty was a thing.
and simply forgot to move,

and the world forgave me.

why love you, when i could love you more ? why pick your pocket ?
we are seamless urchins. needles that mend fences. we are kind to our horoscope.
we have the bends.

why should i not mean to say
how my love  is god ?
are you That -
My Goddess ?
why do i stammer to reward you all
whilst i fend off angels  ?!
you can hardly SEE me carry you
through the whatnot
of our Carousel.

you can barely scream a little

with your eyes.

the moon is talking to a snail
a sliver of grey love. shimmering in the velvet...
a token of whispers
preening the feathers of absolute night
a gossip of stars

roaring in the vacuum. full of gods yelling whispers

to a shell.

my lungs are not my lungs....
they belong to the wrong air of our winter's jest.
at best, we peruse the hush of our dormant lust
and gather twigs for our empty nest. you might suggest, but i demand
an answer to our star fall. to stall the heavens long
to briefly glimpse the shorthand of god's script
to a play that has no favorite in the scheme... only
the ravings of an infinite dream
about snow.

There
are no
virgins
in the
void.

the snow is only time clinging to your boot
trudging through the havens of your grave mute lips
plump in the weather 'round these parts
where the hearts bloom like troubled bees, and naive art.
while on farms, a dozen lambs
can't spell " slaughter "
with a " Baaa ".

but we have only so much snow.
red or white.
glistening on either side of the narrow mush
weaving through woods that remain nameless
but keep their twilight blushed.
we rush through the trivial adornments of the everyday
like heathens huffing ether,
but keep our scarecrows petrified of blackbirds
having heard the caw of wise raptors
in the fields of all flesh
and unnatural
disasters.

but a friend...

a friend
is a ghost running down
with you.

running... where your rivers have blood enough
to ***** the sun -
but never a
motive.

a ghost with the mind of a moon.

it wanders the shadow fields
of your distress
with your hand in a kissed
mirage.

and
you blunder together
so what comfort comes from sharing
doom or bliss -
comes without harm or hell.
a ghost running down,
comes up to you
and you both emerge
from low.

and Love never doubts
you do.

people ****, but.... nevermindpeoplesuck
theycluckruckus in the wonderment. they can't trust trust.
they bleak speak. they last week a year from now, but somehow -
know how they don't remember. but they suspect.
and that's a cloud.
bold suns fumble the opaque  hail of our hardy Undone.
it shines the less.
we are mammals in the heaven of our ignorance.
but not god's fun.

what is that ?
earwax !
you might live here but you might be fooled.
someone is bound to
tamper with your
vapor

leave me nowhere to run from
and i'll close the distance
like a
fly-trap

when you
venus.

your warm lungs are 7413 words
crammed into free thimbles of loose change, as inevitable as loving you
for no reason. you keep the summer squash in winter's balloon;
where the ice speaks.
fire is our way
of life -
dying to mend fences
with barbed
wire.
no matter how soon.
it gets prior.

all that.

and nothing more would be too much.
but no worse.
an hour of outlandish joy
with all the
perks.

7413 words.
and none among them
worth
the whole  
thing

for certain.

i think.