Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars      that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.

" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction  on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.

Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked

with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.

Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen  
harps

ones -  he stole,  to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
****,  [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...

lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;  
Locked on
One of
God's.

like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.


II

Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****.
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his  toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard;  and wake the dead
asking  them for new songs
to set    their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks  
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or  someone
knocks.

As if  "Hello."  
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...

the driven snow is driven bleak
and swirls of ghastly gorgeous
swoon in the nubile gossamers  
of undulating mist.
she is completely mad.
thought she saw a cat
perched in a quails beak...
singing cordial grimms
in a hologram
of dead love.

what are those petals in the iris
of infinity ? are they her soft hands, or papyrus ?
a sheet of hot winters, crinkling in the twilight
smelling of whale song and apple sauce,
her hair in a braid

of ravens.

hello petal.
are you yawning fire?
sleepy head weasel
with long kites in a breeze
with too many termites
in your actual house.
i see your tears
when they laugh at my tears
and you’ve wondered off.
somewhere between yes
and
maybe
knot.

i love your solution
to the whole intractable
bloom.
how your flowers are my forest
is like

wow!

hello Poetry....remember anvils soaking in snow
bejeweled in Hello Kitty
cringing in the Marrakesh  of so much pantomime ?
Are you singing that song ?
the one you scrawled in a fit of distance
on the edge of ***
with    the
Unknown....

hello Poetry... swimming in ego butter... Lobbing off heads
in a red blue !
the stem of a lunacy
branching
into corridors
of soot
and last
rites.

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.

Mr. Ingle made a Grand Entrance seem fay and indecisive and marginally *******. His noble bearing hauled a profile of privilege that could sink a showboat. He was the only man whose Innate Vanity was a certified genius. To see him saunter distractedly along the pier to inspect his fleet is to wonder how a languid stroll and a kick in the nuts were now one and the same. You marvel at his flowing cape and covet his unseemly wealth, but his stride has found you lacking, and in your covetous heart you know yourself to be Unworthy, and better men than you have envied Master Ingle, but every one of them paid handsomely to do so.
     His gray eyes sparkled. Proof of how good it was to have no idea how to give a **** for free. The belt that cinched his tailored breech had a buckle that made men of stature and means feel like all they do is pick their noses all the time, no matter who's around. It was a belt, only one such as Mr. Ingle was worthy to cinch above his waist. His silk shirt thought the belt an oafish clod and told it so, but no one else would dare!
Not without attaining immunity from the boots and even then, you’re talking to a boot!
     Mr. Ingle made a grand entrance; and the local gentry politely hated the ******* and returned to whatever pastry they were elegantly dismembering with all the teeth they were born with money enough to buy and have installed, as Ingle's eye fell upon Herchel Finn, whom he loved best for reasons he was paying someone a king's ransom to discover, and he was pleased

it's like
the rain won't fall
until the sky
slits it's wrist
and the pure love
of the tainted
a black dove becomes ;
and an amethyst  
at night.
a black yellow
where a heart
has fainted.
and a solitary
white...

dreams
of black
lights.

my body is no longer my body long
but a short grunt
of atmospheric
twine
entangled in the long con
of birth
and the shambles of our every
dream...
the semaphore
on a dead wind
of  a flat Sea.

to rival the catacombs of your placid menagerie.

higher than brick kites
we.

and some of the absolute
squanders the never fails
and the dead end
lives at the end
of the block
where you're
mental.

your high tide silhouette
wreathed in oblong stars, grinding-
an ethereal horizon
churning specks of Everything
in a rotating portrait
of a center of
Gravity.

where Love is the rest of it.

in his soul
another one.

one that is not so lovely
and not so
his soul.

but one that is unkempt
and joyless as a happy
death.
his motorcade
draining the true yes
from a hard no.
his lungs
gleaming in the rasp
where the tundra
bleeds
but the snow is keen
to undo
the dead drift
of a bleak
bleak.

or a long wrong.
that sleeps.

we were making love. you were wet sun-storm calling moons.
i was every moon.
you had thighs. thighs so thighs i was Moses
wandering in the lava fields
of new islands.

my hands were everywhere.

you said things that lived too much and died a little.
so did i.

you held my breath to save me the trouble
of Aaaaah.

i can feel the light burning out -
a mile from it... smell the petunia's " Goodbye, and Luck too Ya "
i swear my mind is coming apart
to find something.... but there lies the truth
and it's ruthless for certain !

i feel like one of those houses you come too
and tell all your friends that it's haunted
and i dare you to stay there overnight
just climb through the broken windows
and pray for your life.

it's those home spun agonies
that rip through your heart like the wind through the trees
if the wind had a heart that loved another
then it follows that the trees
are cut down
all the way down
all the way
down.

the rain is bald headed and mangled.
you can almost tease a feather from an iron snowflake
but your mondays have all the time in the world
to be mondays.

you chipped a nail on a crucifixion.
but keep your balloons in your symphony.
i see you walking with a cane in heaven
just for fun.

In a dipsy village on the outskirts of Hopenhagen  
i did tend to my ******* sheep and stub my toe on everything.
apparently.... that's what god wants. so i deserve pie.
to this very day, i believe the logic is sound...

like a hammer striking the shadow of a Bell.

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.

The tempo is in the calm.
Much how lightning keeps her thunder in suspense.

My private thoughts are in the wind
Between the spoken word and the microphone.

Temples have no god.
The desert drowns the cactus and the snake the same.

Caverns tune their Hymns to Mars
To harmonize the choir.
Strange...Fruit Bats lose their radar and collide
With mangoes, more than Fate.
And People think of Stunning
As a tazer and a can of Mace.

And nothing is more hopeless than attempting.

When you're counting,

lose your place.

When the monkey cracks your Abacus
It figures
you'll improve mistakes.

Blunder into Wisdom
With more open arms
than Shiva

When you pray.

without a doubt
we sprout wings in the still calm
and catch the draft in a sleeping cyclone -
ascend and descend alone.
always in the Circus
of our Misadventures.
always in the corner
of our Sun.

how brilliant we would be if the light were out.

once again we falter and return to our apocalypse
with our Bauhaus bread and lipid pools of dread
and we swallow the ink of the night sky, howling
discreetly with our mute trumpets in the flower bed.
but if you love me... how can it be too late ?
our sundial is the moon
but how can we ever forget there.
on time ?

Oh, how carefully you chrysanthemum
and parlay with whalesong and surgically remove.
you think of summer as a day, and swing from chandeliers
too brazen for prime-time, and too often brilliant.
you caterwaul at the gods like a pinch of rain
in voluminous hush.
i've seen you halt
while spinning
and thought you
remarkable.

and now.

i feel
the
same.

nirvana has no heart.

you must dissolve
in all directions to arrive.
you must not be
too american.

and have a **** salad every now and then
it won't **** you.

are you the god you believe in ? does this blood soothe you so ?
are you not a bullet ? are you not not mine ? are you serious ?
why so ?
do you cleave to your wicked  grace like uranium chanting Oppenheimer ?
are you safe where you are and can i say " goodbye " really ? for once ?
how deep are your shallows ? can we drown the noise precisely, my love ?
are these questions enough to see me from ?
and where are you gone ?
you're so gone...

am i there ?

how dim are your headlights?
I’m asking while you drive.
I’m wondering where we go
when we’re gone?
I’m sleeping when the world comes
to an End,
with a comma.
right through the bliss of annihilation
too busy dreaming
to be bothered.

dreaming of grief
as a landscape with an offramp
into ****** fears of your warp.
I’m asking because the sun will die
before your answer
but the question will echo
like a song in the throat
of the very last
bird.

how down
the below goes
no one
knows...
but i
assure you...
there is no
god
at bottom
and the zenith
is a tyranny
of empty.
a truer
you.

when
the birds
ate dynamite
to spite
they're beak;
they sang an evil
good, and knew it !
while the black
of their feathers -
wore white
so their black hearts
stood out.
black
nice.

mars,
mars was the God
of War on Red
so when we bled
no one would know
we were drowning
too.

and no one would know
how down the below
floats, nor have a name
for wondering

without a question

how empty are all your handfuls?
do we all sleep where the wolves blink-
and the moon seep into howling
lather?
do we choke on the foam
of our persistent cadavers by scooping -
lungs from a pit of breathlessness?
do we do such things to under-last
the span of our questioning?
if so, is all the life at our fingertips
gleaming euphoric in a fit of grief?
or at an angle in a wrinkle
of mischief
that corners the bruise
where the pretty
Is a living
thing?

these days are like fake days and cumbersome suns.
moons that have no poets to mock
and the thousand and one idiots
who believe something is real.
the plum from an apple tree is another verse
from a silent thing.... a true gift
from a blind Spring
that devastates the Peace of any youth
as broad as a thin
hope.

having been there is precisely where you're at.
you cannot advance save a reason to repeat it.
life is the cruel awesome of the mundane.
and the miraculous
is nothing but an
often facade

that you mean

to be a person is to be a mask
and to Love is what you actually are.
i know that now.
i recognize your methods as my own
and smoke the skills of expression
as a stone may do.
i surrender to the practice
of love without artifice.
i come down from what pleasure may be mine
to lie to myself. i covet no sun
but savor the rays
of my disobedience, and intensely enjoy
the howling of my penumbra
like all puppies
love a gently.

How i fall in love now, takes no skill.
you merely must be willing.
it’s like coming from nowhere
with a Postcard

from everywhere.

swain and limber I elope with the prairie, laughing in the face of the sun.
my love unbound, like a joy beyond the province of desire.
my heart, pounding nickels into bouquets.
my eyes unhinged from the dark… light fiends in perfect illumination.
Impossible eyes are mine, full of thunder and fresh sourdough
steaming on a solid gold brick  from my last wall.
your lips are how I farm silver
from a kiss, and my love is all
the *****
for You.

behold the truant destiny of our impoverished joy.
swing from a star as ghostly as most of your dreams-
only to dangle from imperfect charms.
gleefully extinguish the harrowing of every day-
upon the lisp of a cliff. in the sharp dark of an unwavering moon.
goad the remedy of You by barking at a star
like a slave to freedom.
or an hour in a cup
of snow.

how i justify the miles between sparks
is how i dare to love.
swollen with unkempt hives of bounty
at the very heart of a ghost
as real as pretending.

these are days of our actual calamity
and the poise of our eventual
collide.

this is the moment that I see you
always.

sifting through stars enough to shine.

when we met
my cathedrals were full
and swollen with
light
the narrow
white yawn
of oblivion, curling
into a ball -
we kick
down the road
past Finnegan's Wake
Drive.
and the last Lamb
in a Lion's
mouth.

i saw you as a goddess that would forgive me
my crippled inertia
and afford me a palace of goodwill
in the hysteria
of change.

but how i lost you in an empty
confounds me.
it breaks for unicorns
and nothing is
sacred.

it beggars belief

but affection stains
the miracle
like infection feigns
the lyrical

and so goes the sparrow, for now...

so goes the Widdershins of our distant embrace
and the wrong star jaded
and marooned in our perpetual
default.

a mad zodiac, plastic in the vapid spool of Eternity

a somewhat always gone
at the very center
of our being
together.

i was born on a Someday.
and You are the only one
that knows.

it gives me
chills.

it gives me answers
to questions, i have yet
to imagine.

it gives me You.

i passed out and had no dreams. but i remember it.
it feels like a long stroll off a short pier.
and the wind is strange.
a perfect blur of resistance across a warped plain
of never there,
i sang a song that had words that had no meaning.
i gave my heart to a howling moon
and came back to myself.

your Hanging Gardens are Polyps of Neglect
and yet you set your jaw to the gasp at hand
in Awe of a Flaw at your command…
as your Pyramids sleep beneath Dunes
of Antiquity. the very color of Time.
your harps disassembled.
and your Cherubs lacking
The Craft.

your Great Wall is showing... as You horde your inner Mongolian.
and Yes; your Horses fret... but you can’t yet flee.
for dark Ziggaurats hold sway. and your Cuniform
lacks Character.
your Parthenon Anonymous. where all your Blossoms Purge
Elysium Fields of their burgeoning Rainbows. -
that only seem to Untie
when you want those.

For Life.

how merry the weathered stones, how jaunty with vigorous erosion, exposing-
clockless epochs of perfect zen. all shipwrecked in the intricate glamor
of having all the facts and solving none of the riddlesome noise.
just all the beautiful things caste about in the strewn Oblivions
of an impartial Cause.

Our bearings are slight adjustments
in a cavalcade of operas
hopping trains.

a quatrain is not a tomb. it's an altar of cellulose and low merchants chanting.
we sell the individual curses of our seldom mirth. songs sting as they must -
for they must not !  if they will not hurt...
if they will not be beautiful, for the asking.
a poesy is a feast.
a revenant of our choosing, unless you had no choice.
i am the receptacle of This voice; and solve ridicule with ranting,
just because.
i fuzzy the logic to inspire the haggard hopes of our refrain; unrestrained.
remaining on vigil,
i mark the stars passing in a waking slumber -
with a fool's mask. and a talent's masking.
i am the urge.
how my mind works is my heart's domain.  a wrench in the parsley we hardly; i daily.
i parsnip the rube barbs of a bards assemblage.  i revisit Atlantis.  Polaroid pics -
with graining.  with irony
i photo
shop.

a quatrain is not a tomb, but a rarity,
as we say new the old things
that make us
we.
for i, for one
am one.
i continue
from no sum
and eventually
add up
to something
because -

why not ?

we're safe now, my sweet. love has come dangling jewels that have no frogs. and our temples are makeshift and dandy, but our gods are ******' nuts ! it's like the same thing that made you is the same thing you deny. but we're safe now, my lamby lamb... and the harps float in the web of their tyrannies, as the clock strikes a dashing figure in the window of our placid riot. and none of us are cool.

Encased in slow gold, and older than clocks -
the rot sets, and the 'shrooms
bloom lots
stuck to the heel of our trot
across the fog clot
and how lovely
are we now
so frightened ?
how precious
are the things
we dismember
for holding ?
and how loved
are the things
we love
perhaps ?

no more Breakfast tumbling out of a Hornet's basket.
just soft thorns and gossamer wounds. only the ravens that kismet.
only the coffin cuff-links; and the splendid Pit.
only the margin for Errors beyond
your Religion...

and the woe of it.

Owning the empirical argument
is like a mouthful of marbles
Telling marbles How Cubes-
Think.

Meanwhile...

All the West is The East with its back to you.
And no one can say how pointless
a compass can be
until they’re born.

And that’s how maps
may never spoil
The Lost.

And how Paradise
remains

“ Here, There Be... “


CANTO II


we are half a bird in a sling
shot through with dark wings
and guillotines as precious
as an unyielding spark.  

we are dust where the flesh is not.
and bone where the
songs go.


CANTO III


yea, though i walk through... (The Other Side-
remains elusive.)

too many Underworlds; and all the doors are stairs.

Like a mad god signing your Yearbook
with your Name.

But for Realsies.

i didn't know what i was gonna do,
but the bells were the bells and the ringing too.
i was the sky and
the paralysis. the perfect
glitch.
the pit and the speculum.
all the better to see you with -
your own life. i pry and dispense with the drivel
of our marketing plan and wage peace.
i keep thunder under my super vision.
i realign the timpani of my discord
in dismay. i didn't know what i was gonna do,
but the bells were bells and the ringing, new.
again came the verse that first had no thought
but ought,
but somehow got caught
in my nimbus, too.
the first blink of a marble statue.
how that feels. and what that means.
and something
else.

and the
truth.

back at you.

how the air tastes is not what the air tastes like.
my lungs are not deceived.
i live where the grim is gorgeous
and the sun a fiend.
where the moon has vendetta
when a grievance would do.
and nowhere am i constant
but i constantly
true.