Too far away, oh love, I know,  
To save me from this haunted road,  
Whose lofty roses break and blow  
On a night-sky bent with a load  
  
Of lights: each solitary rose,          
Each arc-lamp golden does expose  
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows  
Night blenched with a thousand snows.  
  
Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,  
White lilac; shows discoloured night        
Dripping with all the golden lees  
Laburnum gives back to light.  
  
And shows the red of hawthorn set  
On high to the purple heaven of night,  
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,        
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.  
  
Of life for love and love for life,  
Of hunger for a little food,  
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife  
Long ago, long ago wooed.
   .   .   .   .   .   .        
Too far away you are, my love,  
To steady my brain in this phantom show  
That passes the nightly road above  
And returns again below.  
  
The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees        
  Has poised on each of its ledges  
An ***** small girl looking down at me;  
White-night-gowned little chits I see,  
  And they peep at me over the edges  
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call        
  Them down to my arms;  
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small  
  Your little charms."  
  
White little sheaves of night-gowned maids,  
  Some other will thresh you out!          
And I see leaning from the shades  
A lilac like a lady there, who braids  
  Her white mantilla about  
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight  
    Of a man's face,          
Gracefully sighing through the white  
    Flowery mantilla of lace.  
  
And another lilac in purple veiled  
  Discreetly, all recklessly calls  
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed  
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed  
  In her voice, my weak heart falls:  
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering  
    Her draperies down,  
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering        
    White, stand naked of gown.
   .   .   .   .   .   .  
The pageant of flowery trees above  
  The street pale-passionate goes,  
And back again down the pavement, Love  
  In a lesser pageant flows.          
  
Two and two are the folk that walk,  
  They pass in a half embrace  
Of linked bodies, and they talk  
  With dark face leaning to face.  
  
Come then, my love, come as you will          
  Along this haunted road,  
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall  
  Keep with you the troth I trowed.

CRAZED through much child-bearing
The moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon-struck by the despairing
Glances of her wandering eye
We *****, and ***** in vain,
For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead!
When she in all her virginal pride
First trod on the mountain's head
What stir ran through the countryside
Where every foot obeyed her glance!
What manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon,
Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem
But slender needles of bone;
Blenched by that malicious dream
They are spread wide that each
May rend what comes in reach.

skinning a lemon
he slips the rind off,
cradles a pulp

drowning his hand
The taste is so bitter
The taste is so
bitter. His face

looks blenched
white, lips pucker
like a child's first
love's kiss

Tears on his face,
a sour smile, lips
wrinkle one more
It isn't too bitter

life is a movie theater
only charecters replace together
while in a blink of an eye
you're fed up with bow & tie
tragic moves around the corner
views brighten my glimps I'm owner

She suddenly stopped
laughing and blenched,
twisting her hands
behind her back
caught in the middle
of a rock and that place
of feeling fear and
feeling whirlwinds
of fearing the final destination
of ageing and losing
why should moments change
her past everywhere
her future to be ameliorated

Winter’s wrath cut
deep, honing pain
on the stonewashed plots
of harrowed frost.
Her silvered birch,
flayed, *****, and
shadow staining
the adamantine lake,
heavy bound, weighed
harsh with the rugged flocks
of cursing fowl.
Its banks wearied with
age-weathered cottages
of gawking windows
frowned with mouldy thatch
and chimney stacks coercing
the hoary blenched clouds
of burning turf through
an ashen cast morning
of roused jackdaws
arguing into the hard grey
and the Sunday knell
of bells glooming
out of the night wept
frozen from the
dead end dreams of slumber
banishing into haggard yawns.

The open-doored cowshed
steaming in masticated belly cud
and she as dead
as the cold pounded mud floor.
The steel clutched clothes hanger
still wrought hardened to her hand
in the after-botched gore
and soured out milk
splattered frozen
from a kicked bucket
toughening to the temperament
of death’s residues
bloodily intruding
on the tethered ruminants
chewing in the dank-ridden air
of turned silage
and the grind of
shed rats
harrying the winter felled flesh,
gnawing into the midday sun
and the thawing maiden’s
unwanted accursed *******
struggling into decay,
the unsanctified earth
and the condemnations
of the pulpit-pounding
Sabbath man
scathing over
the fires of hell
and his livid-licking brethren.