my blue bones are wit
and it means less to keep things
and nothing is quiet.
we rely on knit springs and
disingenuous
copilots.
we're prone to the oath
of our fears
suckling the dent in our collective breast.
nursing the suffering
of our sharp pillows
and the terrors of our happiness, windswept.
we cherish the swamp-sweat
of outlines...
chalking the missing
body.

instead of dem crocodiles, we have golden calf-fish
slaughtered on the lawn
of our untarnished rush...
prospecting -
and jumping the claim
to our gummi
worm.

we tumble in tandem,
and massively mismanage our enchantments.
my bones are blue
wit
and it means less
to have at
it.

we jab Stats and lack Data, but clap atoms
to a mad hatter.
we raid the pantry of our miffed ladder
against the side of
a barn
gone.
leaning in the twilight of
our genuine
sun.

surly pixies in the black sugar, kinking the last nerve of our entropy.

dem crocodiles, grinning rigid menace
in the murk... instead of dem -
let us first disperse
where the hurt, hurts; and be first
to do less worse than
a farcry
or an up-close
word

a tad mean. lets collapse things
that expand, burning all this,
instead of dem
secrets...
un-ghouling the riddle of our dead wait
in the infinite room next to the room
with the last view
of a naked
girl.

where the world is this world. and we're on it.

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!

the soft Truth is powerless
like a Scarecrow
toiling in the Fields of Other
where Blackbirds are the Masters
wielding Shadow.
Oh great kiss
of submission !
subdue the vigor my wickedness !
swing the pendulum to a halt
in a Paradise
more sane.

in the chambers of my open wound
devour my condition
and relieve me
of so much love !

do this
And I'll be barking in the dark
hardly dog
but more the man i feel
the animal
assumes

but the manacles approve.

Love is in the shape of a law that allows for pain and perpetual twitterpation.
In the torus of a whipsmart affinity. Love unfurls like a petulant fog
beneath a clear sky of Nightfall’s empathy.
hoarding stars in fathomless boys without girls-
all the while, Filling a Void.
you can’t complain when The Universe
holds your tongue.

And You haven’t Rehearsed.

with a sand-weevil thespian mind attuned
to shaking spears before quills
we wage war upon peace with our goons
glinked in grease
to ease the squeak
of our fear, where our gears
grind Hope
into

Entropy.

and Stars
into
a Length
of
Rope.

" Fini. "

it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.

this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.

and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.

it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.

this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.

and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.

i love you.

opened my mouth and the bigot was laid low-
under the bus;   that ******* fried in the afterglow...
told
he should read one book, or love someone.
caught off guard, told to explain dumb.
Yes !
I said that. trapped his idiot
in dead last rites.
listened to the spume of rude laws,
to refute his drone,
I said that his lips made words move
and the words hate
the landlord.

is everything free ? are you not what  you thought cost so much
are you the bard's trumpet ? if nothing is a slave, you are the next plum
hard knocked rival in the brand new menthol hydra, to perplex some
as everything freely unbecomes.
you are everything
but not none.
we have one tongue and no people. we are bling funk and no aspirin
the UN-rational Catherine of your Russian Demi-Glace !
is everything free ? are you not most lost in the odd knot ?
are you not like most people ?
are you not strung out and about, but not south of north people ?
do you love not ?
do ?

do you true passion your abstinent  cabinets of elaborate dreams ?

is everything free ?

and what's
the
cost

?

is this about vampire bats licking your feet ?
perhaps about a wise-man, seeking retreat ?
a dense fig, fogging your lens
an Adam in the apple of your strife
serving cruel gods
and bubble gum crisis.

is this about how i found out that you **** ?

where i chose curtain no. 2 and enslaved myself
to everything  ' you '
wearing blue
gloves

angels must be closer than you swing
from such Halos

open to the long lawns of Elysium
a shade

remote.

it comes and goes on rosy paws and petals away on shadow thorns
that ***** the mattress of our sleep adorned in the raiment of mares
and the wings of sumptuous love, thundering in silent calamity
while the heart is left to burn in all the rain in the world -
and it’s lovely.

it is sensible to be traumatized by absolute certainty.

however; the joy of fishing,  
will remain Ineffable
so don't even
ask.

it is beautiful how beautiful that is