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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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*.

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.

There
are no
virgins
in the
void.

yes.
we have the avenue and the fortress,yes.

we are genuine. we thunder the spark of a long darkness
but alarm heaven from the porch of our peachlight.
the pit, asking why we bother
as we shackle the sun to our gross harness.

come.

come and be clean and be witness.
be the few. the proud. the serene.
join me in the fathoms of the lost found
and jungle your monkeys
in the branches of a drowning
dowry.

i suggest you move.

i plot, you prove.  indeed, i will it so -
but you must leave now.
your demons are quite proud, and no one
has the stick
to stave them off now.... now that you love
them so.

So
my voice, choose.
let your game prove game-less
and be twice removed.
shed your dark god
and trod upon the soft drench
of my deluge.
swirl the sun of it
so the fire burns like ablution
in the rendered fat
of your angels.

Use them.

or be disarranged
by them.

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.

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.

let the mice tinker
with the tall clock
with
the crystal face
and line up the shots
of brandy and crisp air. harried by gnats
and periwinkles.
click your heels
then stroll the damage parlors
of your savage days.
and mark the night
a blessed pandemonium
that features an appearance
of a meaning to it all
with all the candor of an imaginary sage
and a vow of silence.

killing the sting is like killing me.
but the true love of a long gone is a near miss
weeping... and a truant mystery.
how late are the bells ? for whom do you ring ?
are you asking for God to forgive you
or telling yourself absolutely nothing ?

your skin is the wrong place to have your soul in.
it doesn't matter if you breathe -
it only matters that you leave room for a casket.

have a question ?
then ask it; but never choose a god
that has answers.

they have antlers.
you won't like
it.

it is common to be undone and so we whittle reeds
to form totems. we join hip bones to wrists
and resist the fathoms of our reach.
but love has done a trick
that can't be named, and the swirl of our constant yearning
has no peace.

there's only one one way to remember to forget
and that way is less
than free.

be the one that has a joy
that love cannot
reach*.