The beast lays body down to rest,
on a bed of sleeping plants,
to it's close eyes for evermore,
to be one with the ants.
And the sky breathes deep,
and the earth lets seep,
the beast into the fire,
and bed of leaves and creeping ants,
will mourn over the pyre.

Heart beating blood,
Flesh cradle stone,
Aloof to the sounds,
You hear when alone.
Inside of me there is entombed,
A part of me that is assumed,
To be dead until exhumed,
Until the final flower’s bloomed,
Inside of me there is entombed,
A part of me that is assumed,
To be dead until exhumed,
Until the final flower’s bloomed;
How do I hide from myself?
How frequent must my visits be?
to something other than me?
What weeping part put on shelf?

shoot yourself to see what it feels like
write a book
deny the truth
deny meaning
accept life
write a million poems
make some phone calls
keep the past buried
milk
eggs
orange juice
...

Down by the stream where the mushrooms grow

a man is covered from head to toe

with the many joys of daily life

to dispel all of the cold and strife

with this joy he made the fairies

the fairies that live to enjoy and be marry

the fairys that live to dance and sing

in the yellow sunlight by the stream

for many years they lived this way

having fun until the day

the people came with their big bad guns

and shot the fairies one by one

then the man covered with joy

whispered away to not but a boy

the boy wandered for quite some time

and the yellow sun ceased to shine

and the mushrooms shriveled and died away

and the boy waited for the day

when joy would return to his land

the day when oaks tall will stand

until then he lays under a tree

look for that boy, that boy is me.

Rain falls upon my porcelain face
Smooth, earthy, cracked
In my kettle skull to think
Pitter pink, pitter pink

Wind whisking through my sand dune hair
Calm, soft, bright
In my furnace lungs to breathe
Whistle weave, whistle weave

Embers nipping wooden fingers
Soft, gentle, warm
In my mushroom heart to bloom
Babble boom, babble boom

Mountains rise under my stone feet
Strong, elegant, large
In my vapid soul to die
Trickle try, trickle try

Said the elf to the mushroom, "Come with me!
Learn to walk, learn to be free,
come journey to the shining sea,
come, o come, o come with me."

Said the mushroom to the elf, "Why should I?
From here I can see the beautiful sky,
no need to walk no need to fly,
to leave here? I'd rather die!
why, o why, o why, o why..."

A drunk sits on his throne
His liquor lips let out a moan
“Why, oh why, won’t the past die?
Why won’t I leave me alone?”
He inches towards intoxicating increments,
Icarus's incinerating implement,
pride in his eyes as he flies,
into a sun sinking.
Thinking, “Will the past die?
or must my memory be murdered?”
The bottle at his lips
The finger feeling blade
“I saw a brain cell die.
A beautiful grenade.”
A drunk sits on his throne
His liquor lips let out a moan
“Why, oh why, won’t the past die?
Why won’t I leave me alone?”

The roots' reaching efforts, remind me of children. Attractions of my own bear similar fruit.
When a single note is played, somewhere a song responds.
And so the children continue to sprout and my own mind's seeds are past flowers.
Hanging ripe in the light of a sun of ours.
I know you know me, but please don't close your eyes.
The best pillow I've had, is the warmth of your thighs.
My favorite sin is that little white lie,
that makes me laugh when I look in your eyes.
My emotions hinged like a door in the weather.
It's the things you don't see that keep it together.
Not your lover's lament or your daddy's old leather.
The way that you feel when you follow a feather.
Simply there in the hair of a sun of ours.