And the trees about me,
      Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
      Groan with continual surges; and behind me
      Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!


Paint me a cavernous waste shore
  Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
  Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Display me ****** above
  Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
  And swell with haste the perjured sails.

Morning stirs the feet and hands
  (Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
  Rises from the sheets in steam.

This withered root of knots of hair
  Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
  The sickle motion from the thighs

Jackknifes upward at the knees
  Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
  And clawing at the pillow slip.

Sweeney addressed full length to shave
  Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
  And wipes the suds around his face.

(The lengthened shadow of a man
  Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
  Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)

Tests the razor on his leg
  Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
  Curves backward, clutching at her sides.

The ladies of the corridor
  Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
  And deprecate the lack of taste

Observing that hysteria
  Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
  It does the house no sort of good.

But Doris, towelled from the bath,
  Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
  And a glass of brandy neat.

let’s **** to ‘blonde'
over and over again

one hour three minutes
twenty five seconds
until lips are chapped
until legs are chaffed
until love and lust
collide

an eighteen
wheeler jackknifes
across the barricade
small bits of me die
and we **** again​

you cannot escape poetry.

there’s poetry in the uneven streets of *Salcedo.
just to exhibit, ogle at the preen park
  and watch the ravenous trees write in a treatise:
    only shadows are engraved. gravity, their paperweight.
there’s poetry on the oncoming figure,
  a woman in a pencil skirt, disfiguring herself
to pick up her wallet – she wrote herself in cursive,
    cruising in front of the aperture, a form of C in crescendo,
then jackknifes back to slender posture reaching for the sky,
    arms to sides like armaments poised to strike.
making itself known through whimsical imperatives,
   the wind that bludgeons the trees, and smites the poles:
      written in hieroglyphic – the fall of leaves and the felled
  ash of morning, deepening in its station.
you cannot escape poetry
    whereas, I start remembering you without consolation.
  the sudden onset of your memory thrusts through
       the escarpment following a steep descent towards
           my body, a figurine, without water.
you will die here. and from what has been retained,
      will arrive the inescapable.

Where are you from mind to mother
Are you from the tree of ether midnight lover
Mauve and green, and the timber of autumn chill
Chattering, wait a minute it's winter in green
Care to oblige, into my world, wondering who's it from
To the effect, it's a phenomenon in the embers of eclipsed
Make a couple throws, and roll with the scientist of the cusp of miss emerald
You look like a girl, maiden to the concurrent countess stealing a glance from her Siamese cat
Let it be, and little are we ready to not believe that, die on the silver scent
Where's the feeling at and the inevitable morning reeling out, the perfidy of digressing
The breaking bread and reading takes to the herd, kindly
The wine ages with time and death take the darkness away
Edging on the time is like living life on every way of integrity
Schizoid of the psychoanalysis of the treasonable civilian, here on myrhh
Running away from you never took more gusto, the fact ain't lying
A thousand men fighting and flowing
Specs of the dust like a hurricane, moving just because they can
Galvanizing with the woods, I'd sit with my underground chair with burning papers
Burning with the recession, the economy was on page
Were we in prized papers?
The value of money and the sleepers, in clean ruses and jackknifes killing the heathens
Truth with the people told us of better times
Hitherto, this is just our choice, within the entropy, outside we are in frames within