my dog covered in fleas
we're feeding the cuckolds
we're painting the motel
where notes a folded.
we're keeping the aeroplanes
whilst burning the trees
all whilst the cuckolds song
just hit its refrain.
naked violin playing
we come to call
we had the midas touch
but she didn't budge at all.
the cuckolds song is done now

There’s a time and season for every reason
no cookie bakes itself
cherries don’t burst on their own
cherries don’t burst *******!
a bottle doesn’t empty itself to full/fill
breaking clocks is a wonderful way to **** time
ironic glory hole of blood and glass
running out of test tubes, the ****’s too tight
****… reason!
INVEST!

Admiration is the state furthest away from understanding
pawns don’t need details
******* with teeth make ******* meaningful
smashing the cow softens it, …digest it well
meaning is derived from screening STD g string
of a starry eyed jail-bait that drowns in a sea of ******
obtuse and absolute are the only submissions
failure to comprehend results in *******
cuckolds worth….
IMPROVE!

Lexicon laxative
this antipathy won’t last
stimulate thinking with cankerous drinking
***** ***** need no season or reason
to drown ****** who never show
the tears of heaven that understood
misled admiration and adolescent aberration
that silently candle deplorable fornication
time stays unchanged
counting doesn’t prove progress in this game
falling short… half beat hesitation
ITERATE!

Mothers,
Husbands,
Cuckolds,
Embryos,
This one is for you.

---

If you love someone
And this someone and yourself
Takes vows to be sincere
Under the eyes of God
Doubt is already here.
The more passion you show
You should know but haven't a clue
Back down on earth
She doesn't like you.

---

As time slips by
The more you realise
There is no feeling in her eyes
Which don't like watching what you do
She doesn't like you.

---

Without a notion
Of what is causing this lack
Of emotion
It isn't the way you are or even who-
It is just
That
She doesn't like you.

---

However romantic men can be
With concern and care - The more you can guarantee
Altho I haven't discovered anything new-
It is the same accumulative history
She doesn't like you.

With the few words left within me there is something I fear I must write. Beauty is everything, art is justified. It was a hard battle, but art has won. Dionysus takes the cup: Apollo, in a blaze of wonder and irony, has fallen, for this space is for dreamers, not for rationalists. Reason shall come shortly, but soon there will be no need for reason, I can assure you. First I must scorn in the face of every critic, whose airy words tried to stamp the artifice down the whimpering and broken throat of the victor, which is the artist; I must point and laugh at the woman that shrivels at the sight of moral beauty, and the man that seeks entertainment, rather than enlightenment, for you are all fools and cuckolds to your well-loved rationalism.

AND THUS WAS HIS REASONING

Beauty and truth both lay dormant in every soul that has walked the Earth. Every aesthetic piece gives breath to its own truth. Truth, because it is admired, admired, because it is truth. Expression, the holiest form of satisfaction, is then simply the application of the beautiful thing, which is art. In this realm nothing is proven, but everything is felt. This is art. This is truth. This is beauty. This is rebellion. This is nothing. This is everything. This is art.

i left you. you were ugly.
we heard you playing. i put my ear to the wall.
your naked banjo playing doesn't impress me at all.

you are ugly. and so am i.
we all heard you playing chess, with those other guys.

i am ugly. my banjo is old.
you heard me playing the prayer, to all the cuckolds.

i left you. i'm glad i did.
we're both ugly, i saw you salute.
we are both ugly, so we went and hid.

The flesh must be subdued,
for it cuckolds the mind
with its gargantuan girth.
To resist it we need
clear reason,
not dark desire; myriad ideas,
not the anarchic imagination.

The weight of finitude
bears down upon us like
a vertical vise. We spread eagle,
arms outstretched, raised in
a straining V to stop
the mechanical pressure
from crushing us.

We will not die from this ploy.
But the weightless will no longer
fight back. The struggle, eternally
repeated, exhausts both flesh
and mind. Ideas still carry
the heft of conviction; yet
they barely move the needle
on the scale.

2.
Movement springs up like
a desert miracle or mirage.
Powerful leg muscles find
nowhere to turn but endless
rock and sand. The sky
offers no help: as empty as
the listless day. Clouds
pull apart like puffs of
moistened cotton;
they cannot mend the
empty self, for they themselves
need mending.

The flesh plays a shell game
with lust and love. Divine the
winner, then slap away any
sleight of hand that might
lead you astray.

3.
I wander the arid byways
of New Mexico; one road
leads straight to the tomb of
D. H. Lawrence. He took
more than his pound
of flesh; his blood
pumps an irrigating flow
into English literature. Flesh
turned to word in his mind.
And like a phoenix, it sprouted
wings and soared breathlessly
into the stratosphere,
far above the dusty canyons
and the dry arroyo of desire.