It rained for three straight days
during my first visit
to you.
Fitting. I should have expected as much.
Especially if it corresponds to your happiness,
I can only be more thrilled
about rain
and what it brings down with it
and the slates it washes clean.

We drank with reservations
and read poetry with gusto
and fell to the floor with love
as the thunder clapped across the
valley
and the rain poured from our skin.

You are small,
not even close to helpless,
but I would face down anything
so that your hands may stay and fit
so delicately in mine and
so your lips would find mine
again.

When we met, finally,
and I felt your frame fall into mine,
trusting me enough for that
so soon,
I was honored,
and I knew that the fears I had
about what this would be like,
what you might be like,
what we might be like,
were unfounded,
and very complicatedly so.

Wouldn't it have been easier
to despise the other?
But no,
instead we fell into rhythm
as if we had never been out of sync,
we fell  into and onto each other
time and again
in ways that could only be described as
perfection.

I saw you gaze onto me
with a mystique only Picasso himself
would be able to render,
so I lost myself in your eyes
with words I've known for
long and with thoughts I could
finally say.

It rained for three straight days,
but on the day I left
the sun beamed through the sky.
So I left,
with kisses and kind words,
and it wasn't until I was on
the excruciating road back
that I realized
I was leaving home
for the second time
in only one trip.

Thinking on your bad behaviours
(Singing songs, singing songs)
Playing on your fornications
(thinking long, thinking long)

And I will lie to you
And I won’t cry with you

Eating with your friendly gestures
(holding hands, holding hands
Nothing holding them together
(goodbye friends, goodbye friend)

And I will lie to you
And I won’t cry to you

Woman your eyes are purple
(Starlight blaze, starlight blaze)
Lady your hands are wrinkled
(“no-where days”, “no-where days”)

And I will lie to you
And I won’t cry with you

Watch them as they go in circles
(crack of dawn, crack of dawn)
Reading their instruction manuals
(Men or fawns, men of fawns)

And I will lie to you,
And I won’t cry with you.

Perfect people chained and linked,
(Broken heart, broken heart)
happy words clearly inked
(smiling men, smiling men)

And I will lie to you
And I won’t cry with you

Rainbow dribble speaking stutter
(no more rain, no more rain)
Sun-shining, papillon's gutter
wing beat gone, wing beat gone

And I will lie to you,
And I won’t cry with you.

Playing on your fornications
(thinking long, thinking long)
Thinking on your bad behaviours.
(Singing songs, singing songs)

[I won’t cry with you]

Feathers of birds
drip to dirt.
Nails of men
elevate North.
Rusty scythes entwine them.
The golden horn muses them.
As the youth taste them
only the old feels them.

Candle lit hallways see them.
A grey cat senses them

Nails of birds
elevate to dirt
Feathers of men
drip North.

Axiomatic paradigms cling to hearts
and salt drips in blood.
Faltering flight, crooked neck,
cold hands.
Eat with them tonight.

O, gentle and humble men,
sworn swords!
By the pages of the divine fact
fight; sorrows may wait.
Let not thy material blind thee
but allow worldly silence suffocate
thy sense.

Eateth only the bread of the Lord.
Bringeth only the head
of them that lay in bed
while ragged dogs
**** the air and clogs
with brutal false held time
They bark.
They whimper.
They squeal.
Hear not their sorrow
But cling to that fate
which behold the divine
and holy.

Nailed feathers of birds
drip to dirt.
Feathered nails of men
elevate North.

“Mama?” Whispered the young girl from her weakness.
“Are you there?” The silence makes sand bleed turquoise.
“Where have you gone? She glides into city’s salt planes.
“Where have you been?” Red paths track radially form sight’s centre.
“Where will you go?” The girl chokes on her vile breath.
“Where can I find you?”

She is alone now, save for the light of lit lamps.
A hazy smog rises above what is clear
and paints the girl black.
A blue-bird flutter:

“Where the Angels doth fly
Is where thy past dost lie.”

“Whereof one cannot speak…

She searches oceans of soft summer;
time’s broken shards (smothering) fall.

The kindle of creation lingers heavy
in a room of euthanised potential;
a dichotomy of lies and being steady
in the heart of loss and love essential

The spirit’s eyes run down hills of green
to valleys deep of squalid pride
to spectate ****** crying eyes seen
regorging lifetime’s soulless glitter magnified.

And, now: grace and smoke pitilessly drown
the sullen, unrestrained flight of winter birds.

She moves like diamond gusts of wind
cracking cordial waves. Therein, wistfully:
a chaos reflecting mirror that is pinned
to a crystalline mask etched ‘Corpus Christi’.

The models of mankind will then find solace
upon crumbling, depraved ruins of punishment;
locking natures and propensities in flawless
shrouds. She is screaming noise and banishment.

The sixth day’s seventh sun rises
And she drops like flies buzzing
in bottled and beguiled life.
It hits granite.

Sweet shards spread through time.
A putrid stench laminates innocence
as Fall’s bleeding leaves flood
the ensnared luminosity and
velvet, supple breeze of Summer’s
soft, scintillating breath.

…thereof one must be silent.”
- Ludwig Wittgenstein