my first loves
transformed what 'beauty' and 'perfect'
meant to me, and looking back
i see some other meanings
to the imperfection-
perFected i proclaimed;
concupiscent nerves from icy  stutter flutter/stop/and start
to overvast before- and after-glowing liquidy, salacious insatiateness--
to coughing up to concrete luck
or reigning fates between the legs
and then the sob galactic spin of adoration-letting-go
even when in full embrace
from many imperfections always there,
                                                        'perfect­' grew -- astounded me
beyond imagination's bounds--
and i still say amid the memories,
((mistakes and hurts and flaws
i held close then)):
i found in her,and her, and her perfection fullness all and nothing left--
sincerely told her so,
demanding in a tongue perhaps akin
one love there,one love, one more another one in oneness found in one
an understanding of a 'summun bonum' love returning yet just found at last the first.
and then, to see grandma!!
elope away at 86 to marry on impromptu cruise!!
i saw a childlikeness there as she returned,
youthful once again a flame adventure shocking all her young,
to spring her step beyond her offspring
despite the flaws become apparent it was perfect watching them
(with that same man she'd passed up for another at 18)
dance into a twilight swoon of giggles envied by the moon..
finer acrobatics of the heart
to tie the strings of self with other knotted self
together form and net cocoons for loving evolution's end
in learning how again to change into the deeper love of flaws which strengthen us as well to bonding into
this
all too perfect, imperfect endless bliss








.

Brody's mother
was quite the dame
she had this way
of inviting you in

after school
and offering things
to eat and drink
and hey boys

she said
why not try out
the outside pool?
Brody said

OK
and so you followed him
but what do I wear?
you asked

O nothing
he said
no need
it's only us

and well
the neighbours
can't see ****
and so you went

with him to his room
and undressed
and he gave you
a big white towel

and you went
downstairs with him
to the outside pool
his mother was there

and said
how about a drink of pop?
sure
Brody said

and you nodded
holding tight
to the towel
and off she went

in her red
two piece swimsuit
her **** quite neat
in the sack

of the suit
come on in John
Brody said
don't be shy

and so you dropped
the towel
and climbed in
the pool

and the water
was warm
and came up
to your chest

he swam around
but you just stood there
with arms folded
over your chest

after few moments
his mother came out
with a tray of pop drinks
in glasses with straws

gosh John
she said
looking at you
you sure are white

do you hide your body
from the sun?
Brody laughed
guess so

you said
she smiled then put
the tray on a small
white table

by the pool
and climbed in
the pool
her top piece floating

like pink piggies
you looked
then looked away
she talked

of Brody's father
how he liked to
just lounge
on the water

like a lily
Brody guffawed
some lily
he said

his mother smiled
as she looked at you
her eyes blue liquidy
as if they were

of water
she swam towards you
you afraid of the water John?
can't swim

you said
can't you
she said sexily
Brody you never said

John couldn't swim
didn't know
he said
swimming off

to the other end
of the pool
I’ll have to
show you how

she whispered
would you like me
to show you how?
she came nearer

her piggies seemed
pleased to see you
it's all a matter
of confidence

she said
trust in yourself
and the water
you looked at her

liquidy eyes
she put her arms
under the water
and held you

lift your feet
off the bottom
of the pool
she said

you tried but your feet
wouldn't move
here
she said

and she uprooted you
and you fell
into the water
and splashed

and flapped your arms
like a drowning bird
she held you tight
and said

relax your body
in my arms
you stiffened
then slowly relaxed

in her arms
holding you
to her
the piggies brushing

against you
her breath applely  
and perfumery
right

she said
slowly flap
your legs
in the water

and move the water
with your hands
and arms
and so you did

slow but with a kind
of nervous pleasure
feeling her there
her hands and arms

holding you
and Brody up
the other end
flat on his back

looking at the sky
like some thin lily
as you lounged
with his mother

and her piggies near
getting to trust
the water
and the new acquired

skill she'd shown
and you wished Brody
was gone
and you had her

to yourself
all alone.

I saw you and that girl
behind the maths block
Reynard said
we were playing ball

and there you were
caught out
the corner of my eye
and as he spoke

you watched Parrot
writing something
on the blackboard
his curly haired head

moving side to side
as he wrote
and you could see
in your mind’s eye

Christina leaning
against the fence
behind the maths block
her eyes lit up

with a young girl’s passion
and you leaning in
towards her
wanting to kiss her

wanting to feel
her lips on yours
but she kept on talking
her lips opening

and closing
like a fish out of water
and her hands placed
over her groin like guards

and she said she wanted
a photo of you  
to pin
to her bedroom wall

and you said you’d
seek one out for her
and she said
she had one

of herself for you
and then she spoke
of her parents
and her mother’s

depression
and about her older brother
which was lost
in the whisper

of her words
and on and on
she went
and all you wanted

was to feel her lips
on yours
in the few moments
you had alone with her

and even though
you leaned in closer
she talked on
and on

her breath warm
and almost liquidy
against your face
her eyes

like small mirrors
dark and sinkable
and just as
she became silent

and you felt it time
for the kiss to come
the bell rang
and she up

and moved
and touched your hand
and left and you caught
a quick glimpse

of her thigh
as she moved away
and Reynard said
did you get your hand up

or get a snog?
just then Parrot
the teacher
turned around

and threw
a piece of chalk
at you
stop the noise

he bellowed
stop the talk.

lens is ancient and crusted with a film of
old blood of the skies and
liquidy fragments of soul that fall from eyes
souls that brush up against the glass
again and again:

the woman with hot black nest of hair
and strange greyish (bone grey flesh) that was
my muse in the winter of nineteen
when she swaggered between warm pockets,
smoked in her t-shirt and apron-
blades of wind
carving out of her
a masterpiece

woman with brown brown riverstone
eyes, settled in bruisy crescents. woman
with the stones (petrified ghosts) that
swung heavily from her neck, my muse in the spring
of nineteen in the trees heart wrapped in musky fabric and
feet wrapped in leather. god she was
beautiful:cloaked in the reddened husk
of shrinking sunlight, hands curled around
my every word

muse in the summer of nineteen. man with
ruthless, undefined lips, long body charcoal
smudged by a sweaty thumb edges nonexistent
neverspoke of evil never heard of
the brand of love i made
came and went without a sound-

flock of blackbirds, oceanheave,
death parting her lips

He sweats when he poops,
Not just any old ****,
A **** of glory,
A **** of a lifetime.

The kind of ****, that jacks your heart rate,
The kind of ****, that makes you breathe heavy,
A **** so intense that your bowels moan,
And generate a need to remove your shirt.

The cold, yet intense sweats of this ****,
Cramps in the lower abdomen, sharp and warm,
The sweet relief of tension, when that one big log comes out,
All hot and steamy.

Followed by a stream of liquidy brown,
He wonders how his body even operates,
The unholiness of what exits through,
That holiest of holes, next to the birth stump and boulders.

Pondering the consumption of two nights before,
He sits bare-assed on this porcelain mouth,
Ingesting every bit of solids, liquids and gasses,
That exit from his **** canal.

Clothes tossed onto the floor,
His ******* harden from the unpleasant draft,
Caused by the perspired glands,
That shiver from trauma and nightly air.

Gurgle, gurgle, clank
strong coffee wisps around the three
a liquidy black blanket envelops all they see
like stars to the moon they flock
night after night

guarding hawks of their own self story
yet calling for attention
gently imploring
their smooth reflection in the mahogany
burned by the cigarette ****
erased by the sweep of a hand

That is as good as it gets:
Mrs Hushbenway gazing
at herself in the mirror.
Her husband lies in bed

staring at her back; her
backside squatted on the
small stool of the dressing
table, her back ramrod straight,

her hair in a mess. She grimaces,
shows her teeth, licks her lips.
He takes in her fading pink
nightie, the dark pink *******

showing through, the way she
sits there gazing at her face,
the way she grimaces. Enough
to sink ships, he thinks, not saying.

He imagines she’s some other,
some younger specimen, sitting
there, slim figure, maybe naked,
brushing her hair. She is talking

now, he assumes it is small talk,
some neighbour’s husband or
kid or some new baby on the way,
or some dress she’d seen, but not

in her size. He thinks of the old days,
the days of rough and tumble, times
of getting in late, falling into bed
and having it off before deep sleep.

She’s asking him a question, no
idea what, he tries to bluff, to pretend
he had not heard too well. She
turns and stares, her big eyes, cow

like, brown and liquidy as diarrhoea,
search him, brings on the pretend
fear, the good husband pose. Ah yes,
now he’s heard, knows the answer,

what she’d want him to say and he
does and she turns satisfied and brushes
her locks, having lost her looks. He
knows her well, knows her funny ways,

her little lived in world, her way of
seeing things, of saying things, the
words she prefers, leaving out words
not hers, like **** and **** and ****

and ****, words he likes to sprout in
anger if banging toe or elbow. Now
she undresses, takes off the clothing
piece by piece, he hums the striptease

tune, but she's not amused, and gives
him her stare. Oh you, he thinks, who
could sink a thousand ships, whose
face could turn the tides of sea, shut
thy cackle, come kiss, remember me.

Glug glug glug goes Daddy’s bottle the beer going down his Adam’s apple rising and falling his eyes closed as if in some kind of prayer his lips over the end like a baby’s lips over its mother’s dug glug glug glug as he lifts the bottle higher and Mother saying nothing loud enough for him to hear but muttering by the sink her voice low pitched but angry and she casting him the over the shoulder look now and then but looking away as soon as she thinks he might see her but he doesn’t his eyes are still closed and you watch Daddy from the big chair opposite taking in his unshaven chin the closed eyes the wet lips the hairy hand holding the bottle his shirt open showing his hairy chest and the faded jeans stained and torn and Mother says Ain’t you got nothing else to do than stare at your daddy Molly ain’t there some chores you could do? She eyes you now her liquidy eyes focusing on you fixing you like some butterfly on a board her words catching your ears and pulling Bad enough him sitting there drinking without you just watching him and knowing there’s work to be done Mother adds spitting the words now so that phlegm sits on her lower lip and Daddy opens his eyes and looks around moving the bottle away from his lips and holding it in mid air his mouth open the tongue lingering there and he says What you looking at child ain’t you seen a man drinking before and as your Mommy says you must have chores waiting to be done and don’t gaze at me with those small beady eyes of yours get going before I take my belt to your little *** and you lift yourself from the chair and look at Mother standing there her hands wet from the sink wiping them on her apron giving Daddy the stare her eyes damp with soon to flow tears and Daddy goes as if to swipe you as you pass his large hand just inches from your *** and you run out into the porch and into the sunlight with the smells of the yard and hens and sounds and sensations and raised voices from within and you go sit over by the barn and let them get on with it breathing in the air letting your head feel freshness sense old and new smells and thinking what chores to do if any and besides they’ll not come looking for you or worry where you’ve got to and the chores can wait and you sit and watch the house listening to the voices waiting for the smashing of cups and plates and pans flying and cries and shouts but they don’t come just that odd silence and the house just standing there like some mausoleum and you watch a while longer your *** numbing as you sit there remembering that last stinging hand to hit your *** and redden and after a quarter of an hour you get up and walk slowly to the back door and peep in to see where they are to catch sight of them but they’re not there the room is empty the bottle on the table lying on its side and so you go to the stairs and listen for any sounds but hear nothing and so you take one step at a time holding your hands together fearing Daddy might appear at the top his big eyes gazing at you but he doesn’t appear and so you reach the top and wander along the passage almost on tiptoe not wanting for them to hear and then you hear sounds voices muffled and Mother moaning and Daddy grunting and you stand by the door with your ear to the wood wondering if Mother’s ok or if Daddy’s beating into her some as he does now and then wondering what Daddy’s doing to Mother and why she doesn’t cry just moans and groans and then you get unsettled and walk away and go down the stairs and sit in the porch and keep your ears open to sounds and sensing fear creep up your spine like Daddy’s fingers do some night under the covers and he pretends they’re spiders and tickle and tickle tickle and touch and touch and touch.

Dusk sets on the quiet desert
Eerie shadows hide behind saguaro soldiers
And sanguine striped snakes
Sneak back into the earth
Rowdy coyotes meet among the rocks
To cry at the moon
Who never cries back

The wind roams so freely through the desert
Stopping where she likes
To dance with the wildflowers
Or tickle the sun soaking geckos
She laughs as she passes by
And the sands chase after her
Begging to ever be so light as to
Keep company with the clouds

The mountain wraps his unfaltering arms
Snugly around the valley
A regal jacket of deep greens and browns
Laid across his towering shoulders
He lets his gaze follow the hustle and bustle
Of life in the desert as suns set and rise
From the place he has always been
Greeting each javelina and jack rabbit
As they settle into his solid embrace

The wind moves manically
Passing through the creosote bushes
With just enough time for a polite greeting
Before she rushed off to tease the birds
She touches every piece of her beloved desert
But she can never settle or linger too long
For fear of losing herself all together

The mountain feels his weight
Pressing so firmly against the earth
He faces anyone who challenges him
And he only rumbles with laughter
When they strike
But he begins to wonder what lies beyond
Where the liquidy sun shimmers in the air
He cannot abandon his post
For fear of crumbling into pieces of himself

The mountain cradles the wind
Slowing her down long enough
To warmly welcome her home
The wind tells the mountain
Stories of the desert

i hope your happiness grows sweeter and sweeter
and each layer of dulcet pleasure wraps around
your heart like some great red lozenge.

i hope your happiness grows hard in your chest
like a too-sweet lump
with a liquidy sour center

i hope your happiness tastes like my mouth
and my bile
and my love for you powdering your lips.

i hope your happiness grows like a tumor
and your skin shrivels around it
while you wither in late summer heat.

i hope you cant sleep at night
and your heart slathered in happiness
draws every hungry bug.

i hope you have it removed,
that jawbreaker you call an *****
and i hope you choke on it

you started out big, i think. i think you started out with big lungs and a big heart and giant thoughts, i don’t think you were like everyone else

i wasn’t there for the rest of it. i was in
los angeles, i was
playing soccer with the cousins in white dresses in grassy backyards. the sky was plummy, my shoes were wet, i remember it like an uncut gem mined from my mossy mossy memory

but imagination only goes so far. it doesn’t cover things like lost keys or atlanta, you know.
i’m good at lies, but that’s inherent. we’re fluent in
self-hate, i think,
we’re liquidy like the wavy falling sky.

sometimes my mind’s blown, i feel like an eight-year-old watching aliens land again & i feel my hands start to shake
i suppose it was the same way for you. i guess u have the same little memories, the goopy mac and cheese from elementary school, the neighbor’s cats’ names, sore arms, bad bruises

The winds were quiet and peaceful
The streams cool and
running slowly through the reeds
and the lily pads frogless for the time being

Yet with all of the still waters
something stirs
Something whirs and wriggles
inside of this tin man
something shakes and shivers

Once cold, calculating
red slits
are now twinkling with amber
like the comet filled sky
throwing celestial fits

Grinding gears grabbing steel
and wire mesh
have lost the robot to
the sound of His timing
and blood's liquidy swish

At first, we were at a loss
and our worldly metallic friend
questioned his feelings
and thought this was surely the end

Until one day when
he shed his first tear
and the rust on his face plate
began to disappear

It was a miracle we decided
beyond a shadow of a doubt
This once mechanical being
With joy in its eyes began to shout.

We welcomed him to the world
with his sharp robotic eyes
as they softened to a glow,
His now heart-filled chest
full of love instead of lies

The metal scale began to drift away
and this machine was now man
who now looked at every new day
With brighter eyes
and a new love for which to stand.