Baby blue
And posie pinks
Intertwined with orange tints
Fill the heavens
For all to see
But especially
For you and me!

Golden rays that end the day
As the sun sets and travels away
We sit on opposite sides of the earth
Marvelling at gods mighty works

And through the dark days the sunlight thrives
How you’re here with me despite thousands of miles
How this moment is so precious and real
And how I’m always here for you to tell me how you feel.

Tonight we’re under similar skies,
And tonight I bared a beaming smile,
Because I know in this world I am never alone,
For I have you, my safety, my friend, my comfort zone.

Let the orange tones warm you,
And let the pinks fill your cheeks,
Let the blues be in your eyes,
So beautiful and unique.
Let this sky be a sign that we were always meant to meet,
And let this poem be a memory that we can always keep.

Tonight we were under similar skies;
Despite the hundred thousand miles,
Tonight I know we were together at heart,
Tonight I realised,
We’ll never be apart.

Every sunset was made for you.
You are god

I'll kiss you until your heart pounds,
clenches,
         throbs,
pumping embers through your veins until every capillary glows.

I'll kiss you 'til there is nothing but white hot pain
melting your lips,
         cauterizing your wounds,
                       until every hole in your heart is sealed.

And your ashes spell out my name.

81

To Morrissey: I’m not mad

(I saw you
once
strolling up the Venice boardwalk
at sundown
You had the biggest biggest smile
On your face
Which even at that time seemed
Out of character
I had in my hand
What i had come for
The six white athletic socks for 10 dollars pack sold on tables under nylon tarps
And as we both walked up the boardwalk
I thought to myself
What do you have to smile about?)

It is my wish that when you
Revisit this earth again
In your next incarnation
And adventure
That you return not
as an overripe spire of blooms
but as a
Small piece of iceberg lettuce leaf
Too young
too immature
to reach the others alongside you
Your curl a little anemic and so very very delicate.
Just a bitter yellowish bud.

Or you could be the stalk of Iceberg
that’s chopped away
And perfunctorily discarded
pretending to be cabbage in a cole slaw that nobody wants

At the end of the day
The staff may try to hurl you into the dumpster behind the Greek Diner or Chinese
But you won’t make it

You will slip out of the ******* bags
And fall onto the gravel drive
In the spitzing rain.
Growing more
Translucent
Inspected by rats and old hungry pigeons
And maybe a lost snail

And even they will walk away
This won’t be like Wembley at all

As the sun rises the trash men come
But you’re stuck on your back
or twisted on your side
appearing smaller than you are
are overlooked
Bags are tossed into the truck
yet you remain
Waiting

Later that morning
The hose comes out to wash away debris
That would be you
And you reluctantly perhaps
and bit painfully
peel most of yourself away and flow down
the sidewalk with all the leaves
and cigarette butts
and orange peels
To the gutter
And then into the sewer
And then before you’re even aware
The River
Where a fishes’s mouth quickly opens and scoops you in
and just as quickly
Spits you out again
(Your little bits)
To float slowly
Since you’re so light
Transparent
Really ephemeral now!
Your very last traces.

You float down to the bottom
To this other side of the clear blue sky
and dissolve gradually
Not gracefully
into a chilling primordial smear
of muck and sludge.

Here may you find Stillness.
Here may you find Rest.

load your gun
with a nice shiny bullet-
finger on the trigger,
be ready to pull it.
make sure the barrel
is aimed at my head,
then force me to eat
that hot molten lead.
paint my brains
all over the wall,
see my knees buckle-
watch as I fall.
my lifeless body
then covered in red...
told you that I'd be
better off dead!

There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the **** knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they **** they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning thet butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the ***** of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.