We met over 40 years ago. Floating buttocky halves
  spooned into pastel fruit bowls, even drowned in
    Del Monte syrup, love at first taste. Your flesh

a luminous hue, hovering on the border of cream
  and August skies; your flavor pure as dreamed pleasure
    grazing my waking tongue, a melting sweetness

streaming down my throat; your name, a single syllable
  promising delight: pear, barely sound, mere parting of lips,
    and hint of breath, apple-green p, the sweetest

diphthong ea, all the air in the world, closed in rounded rr‘d
  finality. A perfect word, reducing your rumpled, pinnacled
    self, to one gorgeous, Old English syllable: per.

Right now, six of you sit ripening on my windowsill.
  A sky-blue towel shields bottoms against further bruising
    from the wood even at birth you instinctively flee, hanging

off trees in swelling green-gold tears, yearning for earth,
  or growing to maturity in bottled, olive-green light, your dying
    breath suffusing aging liqueurs like the oldest I ever drank,

the summer I was 19, a century-old brandy served in snifters
  the likes of which this working-class boy had never seen.
    I tilted the giant crystal bowl; the fragrant liquid elongated

in mimicry of its remembered self and seeped into my mouth: a pear’s
  ghost enveloped in flame lay down to rest on my tongue. We both
    were saved, at least for that night. Pear. Look of women I love

but don’t lust after, I want to conjugate you: I pear, you pear,
  we pear. Like raspberries, Mozart and love, for me, sufficient proof
    of God’s existence. I trust you. Lead me by the tongue to heaven.

rescue me oh lard rescue me...from these politicians neglecting me..pretend to be protecting me Fathers of the land selling me to the enemy..culture is men calling themselves ****** and seeking not to make an accomplice associate or friend but offending me, so much hate I'm gone need bout ten of me, relocate to a bunker deep in Tennessee and pass days with 160z brandy snifters, ice cubes and Hennessy smoking home grown steadily rising to cloud nine and a blown dome, so high if i fall I'll die I'll fall and I'll dive into fields of visions that release me to be free of superstitions, no judge no jury sorry officer no court convictions, and I'll still be smoking and wildin out feeding my addictions..aint living life with no restrictions or silent objections i sit back cleverly connecting reflections to bring to light my next projection..born a King by your election, to Adonai's call there is no objection..Missed me with that **** here I'll point a firm direction, faith be your guide your will be your own protection..walk ye in your life in the shadow of Gods grace and mercy eternally enslaved by enchantment, destined to despair as happiness ignorantly given to death by divination.

From the Oak cask pours the golden remedy,
filling a snifter and like a crystal ball diviner,
the future of this cold evening is evident,
frost flowers already forming out my window.

With the first sip, and the delicious burn
the muscles relax just a bit, and a sigh escapes,
the week's demon releases his grip a bit,
I shall banish him in the hours to come.

Sweet Melody emerges from the bedroom,
she moves like her namesake,
music in motion incarnate,
as she walks by, I steal a kiss and a smile.

The fire crackles and pops across the room,
raging flames there and deep within my core,
she says pour another drink and join me,
as she burrows into blankets in front of the pyre.

Nothing sticks like excrement
not superglue or wet cement

we are tarred and feathered by a concrete
nation, in
bear traps on a reservation
looking for release.

A piece of me would like to be
Oscar Wilde
a precocious child by all accounts
which all amounts to what I meant,
nothing sticks like excrement.

We are as we are and how far did we go
from the plough and the crops?

we went to the Devil and the high street shops.

Now
it's snifters and titfers and don't we look grand
a million miles from a *** and the land.

eat processed
be processed
a name tag in your ear.

'***** cat, ***** cat
where have you been?'

I've been watching the dead
being turned into bread
at 'Soylent Green'

Nothing sticks in your throat
like a button from
somebody's coat.

For good or bad I smell
like my dad
and he was a good guy.

The black oak is faded
by the continuous skating of drinks:
mugs, snifters, goblets and pint glasses.
They remain stationary in formation,
anticipating the next pair
of thirsty lips to arrive.
With every drop that pours
in the glass, reality is put to rest.
Existing predicaments
and emotions are directed elsewhere.

A fatigued being sits across from me,
with a physique similar to mine.
He comes at the same time as I.
I see him day-to-day,
like a shadow, from sun to moon.
I’ve never see him depart, but
he’s always in my view.

In his hand, a glass dripping in its sweat.
As he clasps it securely, like a wrench,
he devours his poison
and without a spoken word;
he is detached from this world.
When I catch a glimpse into
his disoriented eyes, I see contempt;
but, a smirk rests delicately on his weary face,
as if he knows who I am, and the reasons why
I pick[ed] up this glass each day,

He knew I couldn’t bear to look
at my own reflection.