A breath possesses the sky
and stifles thought.
An angel wipes his halo clean
with a cloth
as a bird turns into the sun
with his wings alight with gold.

A feather glides gently,
floating upon more than air.

Something secret shifts.
A bird is walking.

The truths of all misery
engraved into the face of a rain drop
which falls in all directions
and none.

In the gallery of a town, art was duly contained
and cared for carefully without contamination.
There was a painting there, painted with oil
paints that rained and formed a picture of a bird
on a canvas of vivid blues, browns, and greens
that fixed eyes on it like webs to hair.
The artist spoke:

“We are all swallows: proud, free, agile.
We are all oceans: formidable, hostile.
We are all stormy weather: thunderous.
We are all columns: supportive, calloused.

Entwined we will walk,
down to and up to the sands,
into elixirs made with salt;
swelling our joyous hands.”

Men, women and children all strolled by,
and let not one of them see the lows and highs
of the artist's soul. A boy stood there with
no-one: his uncorrupted eyes walking up and
down the mined canvas. He felt no sand
under his feet; he felt no wooden skin and
complexion in his hands.
He spoke:

“We are not swallows: ashamed, caged, stiff.
We are not oceans: defenceless, mild.
We are not stormy weather: soundless
We are not columns: defective, defiled.

Like slaves, we sing
on top of the wings
of new-born Spring.

The ground we sowed and toiled,
reaped dangers of fantasy untold.
Soul-reaping bird-singers
singing the siren song to us.
But we must not fuss.

I bleed the colours
of a deadly rose garden.
Red, yellow, blue, green:
colourless eyes remain unseen.”

She stands (central) in a field of whatever you'd like it to be,
her wrists ringed in silver innocence.
I can tell that the night offers up the stars to her.
And she borrows the light of the day.
No transcendence can carry her away.
In the end, the saints found time to condemn her.

With a smile, she sings apocalyptic prophecies,
holding the rain in a leash.
When her voice is tired, she implores you to sing for her.
But her tears are carved from the rain
and she says, "I don't want to explain".
But with words, there's nothing much you can promise her.

Take me home, take me home, take me home,
take me through the bleeding night.
Take me down the road so I can meet with her.
The moonlight reflects off her mirror-skin.
You make wagers that you might win.
But there's nothing (real) you can get from her.

I saw careless monks cut quotidian rocks into sepulchres for their gods;
I saw a girl pour the night into a bottle.
Her delusions sounded better in song, but she could not sing.
I saw a prophet look into her eyes and then resign.
She held a tongue of flame in her hand and demanded him to defy it.

The radio from her car played songs that could never be so quiet.
I saw her paradise interlaced with the night
as the ghost of her danced like moonlight on the lake.
I saw a boy hide and pretend that she cared for him.
She played her part, in case the dawn would forget the sun.

But when the day came, it shot out fire from its shotgun.
I saw her crying as the night lost the war.
Instead of singing, the radio advertised stories to her.
I saw her tears wrinkle in the sun
as she surrendered herself to the dogs.

Hair of floating grace
and eyes of bronze hazelnuts.
Longing for your touch
And the softness of your voice.
Your gentleness soars
And flies with infinity.
When clouds close the sky
And stars die; I'll find your light
And I will be forever home.

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]

“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

The moon mocks with distilled grace.
Its light bleeds through panes of glass
to reveal her to Heaven's judgement.
She lies upon waves that cannot cleanse her,
upon sheets of abandon
with devils dancing in deranged
circles around her mind.

She is naked save for the remains
of ripped vestures of white that once
contained all of her purity.

The harlots outside laugh with sardonic voices,
the drunkards laugh at the jokes that spike their liquor,
and the thieves laugh at their spurious wealth.
But they all laugh at her.

She hears the voices of another world
and even they speak to dismantle her;
to haul her down from her untempered flight
on facile wings of wax.
Flirtatious voices whisper
with the strength of God's divinity
but burn with the intent of the Devil.

A cruel air reigns over the room
and stifles her in its dominion.
She holds a handful of the deluge
and her mind is absolved of reality,
but she discerns no creases upon her paradise.
God's angels observe
and bewail her.

Sing me a song, pretty angel.
Sing me a tune only God deserves.
Not that I deserve its blessed sound
but because God never deserved it either.
Lead me down a path built of the bricks
and mortar of Via Dolorosa.
And in the end turn my joy into ash
and drown me as you wash your hands.

Witness with your betraying eyes
the crucifixion of hearts that you parade
around in the halls of your lies.
You’ve the wings to fly away and free us from
the ball and chain but in your sickness
you choose to linger so that even the knowledge of
your presence rests torment and ruin and soon desolation.

I fear the day of rapture.
Judgement will be the falling of pillars
that will otherwise stand eternity.

I yearn for the day of rapture;
the day of release and relief;
the day that I come to the realisation
that my mind does me futile anguish
and the day falseness bleeds from my words.

Now, wear me around your incandescent halo
or the plastic ****** around your neck.

Joséphine inspires faith
that even God envies.
Her voice creases the canvas of the sky,
her wink commands the storm.

Joséphine looks to the moon
to see her reflection.
Her suspiring imaginations dance
in ripples of conscious thought.

Joséphine grasps in her hands
a stray breath of Creation.
Her eyes capture the light of dawn and dusk.
Her halcyon sigh underpins reality.

A precious piano stands silent and sovereign
in a room of obscure ambience that hangs from Heaven.
Gathered is a crowd familiar by name and face,
and name and face alone.

A prophet stands a step beneath the piano.
His emaciated ideals are better explained in writing.
The crowd uses his mispronounced prophecies as the material
for their mockeries and their jokes.

A glass ceiling makes them naked to ethereal bodies
that do not care to pay attention.
And if such bodies could speak, they would speak
nothing towards them.

Each soul in the room is selling some
stopgap prescription drug that will last a lifetime.

The preacher is selling God, with all His effete side effects;
the fascist sells purpose with some acrid aftertaste;
and the madman sits in the corner with a thousand low-cost answers,
none of which you can fact check.

“You will see!” the prophet exclaims.
  His voice is weak in its strength.
“You will see the rubble of Man’s Creation,
  and the fractured bones of God.”

Lucifer enters with a proud gait
and collects the silent.

Wallet not exist
Night until late. I wake up.
Everything: regret.

I'm sick of these love songs;
these odes to romance
where a man loves a woman.
I love happiness but
she art an elusive mistress.
She visits me but she seldom stays long;
she never stays the night.

She never lays beside me on my bed
to ease me into slumber.
Come the advent of midnight,
she forsakes me in the dark and
leaves me to the cruel hand of insomnia.
I remain a praying man for
fruitless devotion is better than
accepting the void.

They would see my pain
if they weren't blinded by my smile.
Perhaps I hide it too well,
closing my eyes when I weep.
But the tears that should fall like rain
no one sees for they drown me inside
and never do they leave.

I love happiness
despite she being the misleading
and deceptive dame she is.
I love the fleeting moments of her sweet touch,
I love when she fills my hollow smile
and reminds me why I haven't ended it.
But she seldom stays long;
she never stays the night.

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.

He takes a shot and back in the dark,
Careful shade he hides.
At dawn, he commits sedition and
Away from dawn he rides.
He calls himself a tortured soul,
Pulled away by the tides.
There’s nothing left but dying.

The dawn brings his lover to his house
To spend a little while.
Then he wept for he failed to see
Delilah’s crooked smile.
Now, he has fangs of vicious prey
That reflect the light like tiles.
And for all of that, the bird is no longer flying.

When the night veils his happiness,
He leads the sun astray.
Slashing the tires of Apollo’s chariot
So he cannot bring the day.
And he pins the mountains to the ground
So they cannot fly away.
And then he shuns the crucifix for lying.

The markets there are flooded with
Men who don’t refrain.
He wanders without his memory;
Feathers suppressing pain.
He declaims that he wears no frown
That’s true, but he lies in vain.
The markets hold nothing for him worth buying.

At noon the blind beggar comes
To look him in the eye.
When he’s finished clipping angel wings,
So they may no longer fly,
He confesses to the most sinful man
For he’s still afraid to die.
And he finds himself, in his sorrow, crying.

And at this wink of dawn, he knows he's still alive.
But all he cares to ask from God is when dusk will arrive.
From the hopeless dreams of hopefulness, his wicked mind derives
thoughts that ground the deadbeat birds from flying.

“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.”