keepsake swindles in the savory elan on our precious dopamine circus.
we gather at the spike of our dis-familiar tropes
to aggregate charm and please the whimsy
of our violent innocence
where our souls are
something like a heart
in a null space
of absolute love
to spite
an emptiness
with all the songs
of a full
stop.

The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand  homes, nestled in the raw

slumber of soft shadows -

moon cast,  in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...

a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,

crowding the dark knolls

of some beautiful  assembly -

An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal

stammering

the eye of our stillness ...

A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens

shimmering in the dialect

of mute jewels.



The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -

An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether

bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...

the extraordinary -

blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~



O'Sacred things that devour flame

to disgorge supernova           As tapestry.....

A garden of stars most hostile

to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -

The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds

Of a desperate mirror

One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~

but hasn't the Silver to shine.

our tongues will regret yet, the very things we really mean.
before breakfast. rough tongues of the young, too thick to stick a pin
in sorrows with subtext, are not our tongues. we are not, not gone.
we are less than really here; right now. you live out of clouds
around the bend. if you intend to sleep as deep as that, then keep
the keys to the chariot, but lose this address.
i know butterflies that hate you.
these are butterflies
you have never met...
and yet
a fret of miles gain an inch in hell. our tongues tell best, of very ordinary means
by which we end, less. we drone. our own pun; a neat trick we keep.
with love, borrowed. a mock debt; a storm-front of rain-checks
feather our deranged nest. akin to soft sins;
if not wrong, not quite right yet. small crimes.
we will do no time well spent,
any favours.
our clocks are dark.
why mark day one ? and do tell, how so ?
as you know, our sunset
is infinite.
i know stars that hate the night. these stars are deep, so by 'night', meant, 'the night
of our eyes' that by design, no star has ever been -
that did not flee for fear of it.
our night is unkind.
love tortured it. love built stars, painted black. never lit.
decoys, hell-bent in heaven's grip to ******* a flock
of lost angels, locked
in free-fall. our night the basement floor
of all descent.
what stars call ' the bottom of the bottomless'.
we call 'a great place to paint stars black'
fin.

since when, do we not live, and not live to regret ?
our sharp minds are unkempt, but the truth did this.
our lies were tailored, so **** fit. smokescreen jacket, 100% smoke.
double stitched.
that camouflage camisole  ? pure silk.
somewhere, a web of deceit
is telling a fly
about a hot librarian
with black wings.

with your face.

good with scissors.

she wove a façade with her heart in her left hand, behind her back. this heart wept.
these lies found god. when their faith increased their number...
god was family.

i knew    that would make you laugh.

i didn't know laughter could ask for asylum.

this will be dealt with. our games are serious spirals.

our vendettas our enigmas.
our humor; inscrutable.
our telepathy
is disarmed

but never harmless.

when people like us shoot from the lip ? it's a massacre. hollow points, custom made -
black powder ? an unnatural understanding of love. and dry wit, unhinged...
our bullets ?  Bullies Of the Highest Caliber and fluent in 5 languages; doubtless,
The Envy of Contempt !

when people like us shoot from the lip ? with our tongues, armed to the teeth ?
our teeth; a full set of white knives. with our vanity...
bleaching carnivorous
stalactites by day.
stalagmites by night ?

do worlds burn ?
does Sigmund Freud ?
I do not know.

I am certain only, of the following -

" when two persimmons make a pair... lethal persimmons."
" when two pears make one false move... persimmons are like '**** pears !'"
" when persimmons are paramours... and we too, make a pair...?"

Rosemary's, baby persimmons ?

i can tell you there is no such thing as 'collateral damage' at our level of expertise
and nothing bleeds without a permit.
to attain said permit, a wound, from the future -
must send a genuine moment of weakness to the past. after analysis...we verify.
from here, our methods diverge.
but our dis-ordinance
is acquired.

when our gauntlets demand satisfaction, our custom is to trade barbs.
at this, we excel. we trade without deficit.
our accounts are immune to frenzy.
our balance:  pathology.... then

it's 'tongues at twenty paces'
and someone
gets hurt.

by rote we joust... by now, your flank is.... exposed.
so, my dread rose... my blanch thorn... know -

Twenty paces will always be nineteen paces from a kiss.
but it will never be
'only nineteen'.


if you laugh - this has always been true.
if you don't - this has never been a lie**.

pull them weeds from yonder brick, be quick... bedazzle me with corduroy and ambergris
be thick as thieves; be all things faithful to the shadow, and in your passing scrye
the odd ghost. decry your abominations as the fodder of false hope clothed in the style of the regent
of Amiss. on the Isle of a Man.
clip the nettle from my tongue where i'm most stung by misdeeds. amplify my misery with a joyful
peroxide, the living thing in your  chest of winters. your remarkable damnation in full blossom.
more awesome than fog diamonds in wet eyes grazing on refractions of something unknown
and that's how you see it.
a gargantuan
sliver
of
now

the sky on my back
is heavy now, and the thin light
a shadow.
i am perched in my godforsaken.
but my wings dare the holy
and my mind
tumbles up
like a last supper of glass worms
and extra ******
strychnine.

in the blink of an  I
there's a wink
with a slovenly iris...
and a dull pearl
*****-blissed
in the shattered tooth
of my gnawing
gob.

a low frequency
in the high place
of my moon ***** cul de sac...
and an exact replica
of my dispossessed
reflection... a memory
that forgets best
as it mulls over
and dwells more ******
than the asking price
of my naive
assurety.

it is perfect. and glum.
but the gem is the thing
on the tip my tongue -
seeking and slithering
betwixt.
it's a fixed
star.
or
some
awful charm
looming in the dismal
and lurid
in the
Carnival.

you
are the ghost
that feeds my starvation
and the means
to an end.

a complete drink of sour kindness.

lopping off heads
like a queen of knaves and barking mad
mittens.

it's very cold
where we come from...
but we go
back.

and to
return
is to
speak
a
lost word
where we
found
it...

leaping reason like a squirrel
to a bitter branch
where the apples
are stones
and the leaves
are not amazing
today*.

And Ennui Go...
our curmudgeon's malaise is strapped to an anvil cloud of distinct mist. He trundles through the eye of a needle in his Eye. He blinks when God says " Nothing ". And the choir in his soul is late for rehearsal every minute of the daze. our curmudgeon's malaise is strapped to an anvil cloud if distinct mist. He trundles through the eye of a needle in his Eye. He blinks when God says " Nothing ". And the choir in his soul is late for rehearsal every minute of the daze.

'
there you are.

i see you leering at the flight of amber bees.
i see you chipping away
at the chicanery of
a valentine
in a world of more accidents
than your love's
purpose.

we are the first

us.

come with me,
and we  
shall arrive!

we get          
somewhere
just to be
god's
people
sipping on frost
and bad theories... when I'm weary
i have no chamber for your
blatant nod.
your overt turtles
eat your oysters
putting them

to bed.

are you not your best offer?

and here we go again.
let x equal x
and the pond **** of your pitched battles
be the death rattle
of no tongue.

absorb the coolant
in the inferno

and his name is simply

" where are you from? "

and so... There ! Amid all allurement and soft machines;
the spoiled brat of Venus, knicking the doors and kicking the canned laughter
to the foot of a mountain of existential speculation. Amid the cherry bombs and the Persian rugs; so many menageries of tinfoil origami swans.
so very little Time.

so little rosemary wine in the pickle jars. So few wolves
in the porcupine dens  - and only a swarm of hornets
in your nightclothes, this
morning.
and nothing but nettles
in your tea.

well, nettles and golems and orange hope.

these are the sleeping roses that dream of thorns and candy
a plume of ludicrous rubes ramping up the drivel
a shanty town that shan't not blot out the sun with it's moon
but rather a rambling brook of gorgeous boredom
swimming upstream to get down there....

please go...you might arrive before you leave.
even so, this is a private conversation that must be broadcast
as lavishly as night blossoms
this is the dead space, shuffling down the alley ~
seeking brackish wisdom and polished dust

these are the  genuine barnacles of faith; clinging to the hull of a derelict
an underground stream of punctual devastation
a zero, dividing without regard ~
these are the chilling suns, slathered in ice and muslin
a false door to a fiction
wretched with beauty and comely coronas

Thorns and Candy.

the glib torrents of genuine mockeries
parade and diffuse.
i hang my hat on dull knobs and soldier on
to an empty room, with my bells numb
and my prayers mute.
we are the joyous noise, risen from a grave tune.
but we have our hours locked in minutes
that expire to amuse a few.
perhaps the angels know the jest of it
but remain removed.
having seen it all before, at rest in tired fun
they muse.

the earth
took a dare called ‘ spinning ‘
and wound up in your catastrophes
strapped to my everlasting retreat
by the heel of my approach
from a constant ache in the brain -
as stalwart as a legion
of blind corpuscles in the arm
of an errant worm.

or there’s beauty and poetry
bleeps it.
a symphony of solitary
narcoleptic rainbows
barking at your scars
with gossamer private
thoughts.
either you wail at the wall
or you mummenschanz
where you want.

or where you’re
Not.

I was open like a book is closed. but a gorgeous sort of apple-worm
doting on inlets of fever and dim revels. I slept in a barn.
i swept infinity under the carpet to approach an impossible scenario -
while slumbering for no reason as I gathered a host of reasons.
True I parked in the dark quadrants of my simple joys,
But I digressed.
I came upon a pool of sublime introspection
and my reflection
was another
Boy.

Because
the fire burned
you filled
me up.

you filled me up
because
the Sun was
a joke.

i will never stop

because the stopping
is Unreal.
i will never
not Love you
because one kiss
Is

**** the World.

and there it
is.

you don't know that the world is  ' worlds ' . but every early morning you suspect.

we and You and I
close-talked and Time stood stock Still
as Clocks will, we lost Time... we rode upon the equine, with tight thighs clamping
the Beast of our Burden.

now pure love
can't stop
hurtin'.