I
Head, shoulders, bees, and hands.
Stings and wings apart,
From the anatomy of art
Despite the stills and shakes.
Two of twos for many stands.
Though at the fore reside the restless digits
Every thought, they spark and fidget.
The point is impolite, but that widget-
My leg knuckles buckle thinking of the quakes,
It tore through my index like new nectar glands…
II
One for rest the other for tests
And one s for the possibilitie
None are hidden from the complete set
of peering palms
right like the leaves,
left like the breeze.
Like the future
Told with tea.
Where these wrinkles will write their say
While these prints will match their way
Whistling while working; these knuckles will play
Whether it be told or felt- make it chalantly
Waiting with a tale for two in every day
III
I set them
With just enough pressure
To hold a frog for fun
Or to annoy a lame nun
Squeal
Down, the cuticles cry
Chuckle cackle fiddle,
Ruckus rackets and riddles
Are really a lot of fun you should try it.
Simply pry the favored tendon
Over that big red button
Yes yes, the American kanji of dissonance!
Excuse the madness, I refuse the discord.
Sounds do not have to be met with pain,
And fear can avoid disdain...
It’s an odd thing that jesters are paid for.
There is an education…
But there is no degree.
I also, cannot waive its fee.
What I paid was from within me.
IV
I had known a good friend fellow
Who once let out a grand belch bellow
About his crimes of cheese and wine
Toward a beauty so sweet and discreet
Her spinning feet fleeting from new feats
Whereabouts to doubt, still flies more than fine
I said to him “your sense is jagged
and your breath is haggard-”
so he interrupted with one of brine…
The failure is in my nature’s course!
Then my dammed machinations make it worse,
It seems as though who I intended to be
And who I wanted you to see,
Are wholly revealed as two separate scenes.
I must leave your metals unmatched sheen.
Well…As I trust you heard before,
Your bust appears to be a dusty lore
I say, you can’t expect her eyes to wait for rust!
A firm grasp on the glass.
She clasps a diamond overhead.
I pointed out with a wave.
A slam,
Then rotating prints on his glass.
The hopeless *****,
At the cheek she turned.
Whilst I drew on a napkin the-
Legendary Ten-Pronged Opposition Foundry.
Of course, those lights would close..
Excuse me, one other blueprint is exposed.
Canvas of humility, lines drawn like, self-drawn pens.
Perhaps three could wring something useful from this science
V
Her plans! her plans!
They dance, they dance!
As my matrix unravels,
The hiding holes disband,
Its light skips through the land.
This heat, though discreet,
Will shoulder like a man!
Torching every grain of sand
In to a castle of glass
Where the magic is as-
Crafts…of her own hands.
This is where she sings, here
Ask for where, and no song is there
The Tale is strained into strands
She sings there,
Now, she sings there
VI
Imagine, the swinging trees
And busy birds between fronds
Of these leaves, of mine, you see?
To ensnare and percuss
With your singing wrist
Yet you persist,
to pant and seethe
in these gauntlets and greaves…
A moronic oxidative process it is,
To be here and be there both.
Now that I see more strings
I would rather design dreams
Than to meddle a mess
Out of the mettle you chose to test.
VII
Why would one bother,
Vex the metal man’s nerves
Of alloy he dare not name
Mecca’s bolts smother
The work his death deserves
So he limps slow shocked by shame.
Reliquary shammed,
In sardonic preserves
Dark like the grace in his dame
Her bolts monogrammed
By her lack of wild game
Blinded by white in her cold
Her arms gently fold
His rebirth now retold
His machinery, untame
These split heart horns rammed
Dancing, a light the lame.
Dreams may anchor another
Inspire the lover,
You musical mother
I know it,
Your arts heal hearts after any worked hurt.
VIII
Until vissictudes
Crash down,
I lay my back on grazed meadows
With only the sky to cast shadows
Spinning clouds
Of those crafts
In their hands.
