lily stomps the dust
like a warrior
in one lacy mitt
last nights bier

and in her other
her latest creation-
the ladies of lust
a face on-

little boxes of raw
by the merciless lit
lone the simple seer
in a wasted aeon-

she strides the cusp
of peace and war
rouses to a hit
and lights to land

turned a page
a wild hand
-the flowers of rust
burn like straws

in the hate
garden
the waxing and waning
sweet darlings

on a still morning
what then
the air tor!
listen and kiss..

ii)

the surreal holds
little appeal
for some-
i like a dream and
i like it
real..

a thin line between
pretentious *******
and genius
a **** or a bells
peal..

in the spring, d´accord,
is creation!
some ******-dee of
the written word or

some muse in love-
the old sap rising..!
a touch of the ancient
bumble-bee

in the brain-
a fused sword falling
blood like pain
o held the sight..