The most breathtaking
gardens
require manure
to maintain their beauty.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Child Protective Services
densely emboweled in terrored thought
a child cries from within a closet locked
eternally forgotten
discarded
disdained sludge
i thrust my cock into your mouth
Who's your daddy?
a child cries from within a closet locked
eternally forgotten
discarded
disdained sludge
i thrust my cock into your mouth
Who's your daddy?
DeQuincey and his Yellow Lark
Midnight in rain the message came--
Spend The Remains of Night With Baal
One o'clock-- aquatic birds loo-a-loo
and loons tuck their beaks in scolotress,
dive down with Gilgamesh for watercress.
Two o'clock-- lemurs frick each tick
and tock of Grand Meister's time-machine;
two hours gone to silence, to malaise--
I'll reckon Chaucer's way of telling days.
Two hours gone. Read Chamfort, Fonenelle
without chime or knell. Three moonlings
with pussies nearly shaved tell monotonies
of time and expose their deeps in tuberose
pose, turn and anus puck reveals in clench
the Yeatsian Antithetical Wheel.
Come to spend, mortify your life with Baal--
ever I pray there be altars broad to the God
of sacred hills ripe with figs to pluck-- and.
houris to fuck-- and on the plain Egyptians
gild their cocks with gold, mine their stones
from the banks of Bethesda's spring.
Enter my castle hall through the portico--
drink to Othello's farewell-- hypnogogic
lorio. Drink the moon my beautiful girls,
my moonlings all; entail night with vials
of vitriol and veen; violeted plates weigh
Labron down, heavy these lazulic stones.
Weigh them down! lest winds
blows menses out to reveal the joke on Eve.
How our open sores run the pus to coils
in the brain--brewed to sperm
that rots and spills out in dreams.
Three o'clock-- we hire girl dancers
with enormous cocks to dig with shovels
and picks. Excavate dear Kathy's tomb.
Olive and peach we find petrified
in baskets of reeds, we touch a virgin
mummer-girl grown from Amanita seeds.
She-Baal lives ever in this tomb--
leopard, lion and snake; in Artic wolves,
jungle cats and crocodiles. I eat the spleens
of maidens plumbed to cum--then watch
them stagger down to die on Paradise Hill.
Always forever beggers lay their filthy heads
in sterile laps of innocent Saints, rest under
trees planted thick on Paradise Hill
and sing ballad songs of Goth, Sloth, songs
of Passion and Lust on Gethsemane.
Obliterate my pallid song, these pathetic
refrains posted here in this Gaslight Hotel--
V’s gracious blog with a thousand rooms
to house my calculates in Off-Symmetry,
my arts of Blustery, my crazed senseless
degrees of Literary Arts and Mustery.
Four o'clock—my moonlings rise fulsome
and bare, sharpen their nails, coil ravening
raven hair and glide the slip of rubber prods
into their supreme cunts full of juice and air—
into the shared Sublime labyrinths of Baal.
Five o'clock-- moonlings toil and flush,
drink from turtle shells, belch and wade
the shallow weans of sulphur's Fairyland--
chameleons batting their bulging eyes.
They stare while I lick about the throne
of Baal, indraw into the netty sieve, into
scenty umber oils, into ooze of allizron's
tasty creams, around clit's tilting cleave.
Six o'clock-- by now much spume
has been gushed and frayed fimbriate.
Stll hungry my moonlings reach
for cybee pips to eat, finger through
gingered vees, labinate-- turn and show
to me how open and pink their clams.
Outside in mizzling sleetty rain December's
weather vane turns and points to Laura's
last lunar rule. Look! – glissando’s
hermeneutic waves conjunct with dawn's
star out of Jacob's book— it’s morning
and without my stir, it's seven o'clock.
At eight o'clock my moonlings drift, paw
at armilla and stretch, dangle their body
laze before my eyes.
I go out, raise my parasol and walk
to Lemur Park-- I spend the day
reading DeQuincey’s words to yellow larks.
##
Don Taylor
Midnight in rain the message came--
Spend The Remains of Night With Baal
One o'clock-- aquatic birds loo-a-loo
and loons tuck their beaks in scolotress,
dive down with Gilgamesh for watercress.
Two o'clock-- lemurs frick each tick
and tock of Grand Meister's time-machine;
two hours gone to silence, to malaise--
I'll reckon Chaucer's way of telling days.
Two hours gone. Read Chamfort, Fonenelle
without chime or knell. Three moonlings
with pussies nearly shaved tell monotonies
of time and expose their deeps in tuberose
pose, turn and anus puck reveals in clench
the Yeatsian Antithetical Wheel.
Come to spend, mortify your life with Baal--
ever I pray there be altars broad to the God
of sacred hills ripe with figs to pluck-- and.
houris to fuck-- and on the plain Egyptians
gild their cocks with gold, mine their stones
from the banks of Bethesda's spring.
Enter my castle hall through the portico--
drink to Othello's farewell-- hypnogogic
lorio. Drink the moon my beautiful girls,
my moonlings all; entail night with vials
of vitriol and veen; violeted plates weigh
Labron down, heavy these lazulic stones.
Weigh them down! lest winds
blows menses out to reveal the joke on Eve.
How our open sores run the pus to coils
in the brain--brewed to sperm
that rots and spills out in dreams.
Three o'clock-- we hire girl dancers
with enormous cocks to dig with shovels
and picks. Excavate dear Kathy's tomb.
Olive and peach we find petrified
in baskets of reeds, we touch a virgin
mummer-girl grown from Amanita seeds.
She-Baal lives ever in this tomb--
leopard, lion and snake; in Artic wolves,
jungle cats and crocodiles. I eat the spleens
of maidens plumbed to cum--then watch
them stagger down to die on Paradise Hill.
Always forever beggers lay their filthy heads
in sterile laps of innocent Saints, rest under
trees planted thick on Paradise Hill
and sing ballad songs of Goth, Sloth, songs
of Passion and Lust on Gethsemane.
Obliterate my pallid song, these pathetic
refrains posted here in this Gaslight Hotel--
V’s gracious blog with a thousand rooms
to house my calculates in Off-Symmetry,
my arts of Blustery, my crazed senseless
degrees of Literary Arts and Mustery.
Four o'clock—my moonlings rise fulsome
and bare, sharpen their nails, coil ravening
raven hair and glide the slip of rubber prods
into their supreme cunts full of juice and air—
into the shared Sublime labyrinths of Baal.
Five o'clock-- moonlings toil and flush,
drink from turtle shells, belch and wade
the shallow weans of sulphur's Fairyland--
chameleons batting their bulging eyes.
They stare while I lick about the throne
of Baal, indraw into the netty sieve, into
scenty umber oils, into ooze of allizron's
tasty creams, around clit's tilting cleave.
Six o'clock-- by now much spume
has been gushed and frayed fimbriate.
Stll hungry my moonlings reach
for cybee pips to eat, finger through
gingered vees, labinate-- turn and show
to me how open and pink their clams.
Outside in mizzling sleetty rain December's
weather vane turns and points to Laura's
last lunar rule. Look! – glissando’s
hermeneutic waves conjunct with dawn's
star out of Jacob's book— it’s morning
and without my stir, it's seven o'clock.
At eight o'clock my moonlings drift, paw
at armilla and stretch, dangle their body
laze before my eyes.
I go out, raise my parasol and walk
to Lemur Park-- I spend the day
reading DeQuincey’s words to yellow larks.
##
Don Taylor
Fitzroy's Lawn in Lemur Park
I call this scape of grass Fitzroy’s Lawn in LemurPark--
but no lemurs frick about this day of gloom and rain--
perhaps malaise has run the healthy ones off to jungle
caves in Mandalay.
I know lemurs like the sun, that trams groan to make
Spectus Hill. I know the cafes, how the river smells of
cinnabare. I know the tides-- I know Fitzroy died at
Casino Del Mars dealing baccarat to Baron de Jonc
and the woman from Brazil.
How we marveled at the woman from Brazil-- she,
calmly playing Bank with Martingale; then pulling
down her evening gown and playing bare-breasted
when she lost the double five times-- de Jonc already
down two American million. She took a cigarette from
Powell’s silver case and gave de Jonc a kiss on the tip
of his nose. The three left the casino laughing.
That had been a glorious week-- true, it had been so
glorious-- until Johnnie Fitzroy died.
That very night he slipped and fell away from the ta
-ble, his stiffened arm scattering $1,000 cheques .We
waited until a heavy rain lifted, then we buried him
in the little cemetery across the street from Lemur
Park.
I call this burial place Fitzroy’s Lawn in Lemur Park.
We drank. We ended dawn by dancing in the mud on
Fitzroy’s grave.
I know lemurs like to frick and frolic about in the sun,
beat oleanders with their tails-- prefer rotten fruit to
eat and in oleander tuffs to play. But in rain, where do
lemurs go?
Where do I go in late afternoon?
Mornings-- I like to walk in heavy mist and tarry near
the bookseller tents or stand here on Fitzroy’s Lawn be-
neath the chestnut trees, remember baccarat and the
woman from Brazil. Sometimes I find shelter and read--
a pretense perhaps, sentences, paragraphs, a page from
Chamfort, Balzac, Maines.
Years ago when I lived at Northumberland Manor with
my father, a groom for Doctor James, I would hide in the
greenhouse behind the garens and waited for Alexandra
to come from the summer house. I would watch her pass
by with her hoop and stick and skip a garden promenade.
I often mentioned her to Fitzroy and he mused-- he too
would have watched the skip and roll, would have waited
until her body filled, then taught her Baccarat.
A lady touches a book and looks away as if quiet neglect
murmmers her melancholy. I pretend to know how crum-
pled she had left her morning linens to get quickly away
from her house, away from her memories-- away from
the crimps in scented pillows, from strawberries spilled
and left to spoil, from ears of corn tumbled out of baskets
onto the floor, from her chipped Vendean plates, tea cold
in cups, sticky wooden spoons-- away from the cycle of
her lonely hours.
I take my morning tack through the bric-a-brac of morn-
ng rain. Tech tech tech-- long drops off the trees splash the
bookseller tents. I ease and maunder about, light a cig-
arette and watch the woman buy prints. She asks that
they be wrapped in paper and tied with string. I stoop un-
der the flap of tent cover and walk on--
toward Fitzroy’s Lawn in Lemur Park.
##
Don Taylor
I call this scape of grass Fitzroy’s Lawn in LemurPark--
but no lemurs frick about this day of gloom and rain--
perhaps malaise has run the healthy ones off to jungle
caves in Mandalay.
I know lemurs like the sun, that trams groan to make
Spectus Hill. I know the cafes, how the river smells of
cinnabare. I know the tides-- I know Fitzroy died at
Casino Del Mars dealing baccarat to Baron de Jonc
and the woman from Brazil.
How we marveled at the woman from Brazil-- she,
calmly playing Bank with Martingale; then pulling
down her evening gown and playing bare-breasted
when she lost the double five times-- de Jonc already
down two American million. She took a cigarette from
Powell’s silver case and gave de Jonc a kiss on the tip
of his nose. The three left the casino laughing.
That had been a glorious week-- true, it had been so
glorious-- until Johnnie Fitzroy died.
That very night he slipped and fell away from the ta
-ble, his stiffened arm scattering $1,000 cheques .We
waited until a heavy rain lifted, then we buried him
in the little cemetery across the street from Lemur
Park.
I call this burial place Fitzroy’s Lawn in Lemur Park.
We drank. We ended dawn by dancing in the mud on
Fitzroy’s grave.
I know lemurs like to frick and frolic about in the sun,
beat oleanders with their tails-- prefer rotten fruit to
eat and in oleander tuffs to play. But in rain, where do
lemurs go?
Where do I go in late afternoon?
Mornings-- I like to walk in heavy mist and tarry near
the bookseller tents or stand here on Fitzroy’s Lawn be-
neath the chestnut trees, remember baccarat and the
woman from Brazil. Sometimes I find shelter and read--
a pretense perhaps, sentences, paragraphs, a page from
Chamfort, Balzac, Maines.
Years ago when I lived at Northumberland Manor with
my father, a groom for Doctor James, I would hide in the
greenhouse behind the garens and waited for Alexandra
to come from the summer house. I would watch her pass
by with her hoop and stick and skip a garden promenade.
I often mentioned her to Fitzroy and he mused-- he too
would have watched the skip and roll, would have waited
until her body filled, then taught her Baccarat.
A lady touches a book and looks away as if quiet neglect
murmmers her melancholy. I pretend to know how crum-
pled she had left her morning linens to get quickly away
from her house, away from her memories-- away from
the crimps in scented pillows, from strawberries spilled
and left to spoil, from ears of corn tumbled out of baskets
onto the floor, from her chipped Vendean plates, tea cold
in cups, sticky wooden spoons-- away from the cycle of
her lonely hours.
I take my morning tack through the bric-a-brac of morn-
ng rain. Tech tech tech-- long drops off the trees splash the
bookseller tents. I ease and maunder about, light a cig-
arette and watch the woman buy prints. She asks that
they be wrapped in paper and tied with string. I stoop un-
der the flap of tent cover and walk on--
toward Fitzroy’s Lawn in Lemur Park.
##
Don Taylor
Monday, September 28, 2009
Negative Grammars
I think not a time I do not wonder
how immense birds lift so easy
from the lake-- here in Arles
I tongue another coat of spitting paint
upon the dead center of her sex.
Never not a time I do not dismay
through evening's gnarl and laze,
how Laura’s formative cry starts
but adumbrates at the rim. Quaffs
in her throat bring something
from inside that pulls her back,
stops her below the brim.
Never not a time she did not want
her all-day tightness unwound.
Never not to ask, O please!—send
your open lips deep inside
my hunching chair and
leave them there.
But no use.
She stalls at that fecund second,
rolls her eyes to the time,
tells me to lift up, go out, gather
strawberries, the wings of female
butterflies, lady bugs
and rotting-ripe orgasmic pears.
The sun rises, sets and rises again--
fly away distant tiny birds,
fly home to Mandalay, sing in-caged
delightsand with your beaks,
heat the slippies of jungle Queens
mating exogamic upon woven mats
in their native Poon.
Should there have been a time?
Could it be explained by laws
of negative grammars
that there was never not a time
I did not love birds immense,
but small in distance-- birds
soaring above trees, and never not
a time I did not try to give her release,
by my lips, cock, or toys found
in dresser drawers-- and never,
not never leave her clogged,
sitting corked as a jug of shine,
stopped-up, sitting in her juice,
fingering her never-drying always
trying hot wet pelvic chair.
And never not a time I do not
want to leave Arles, take a train
to Kansas City.
##
dt
I think not a time I do not wonder
how immense birds lift so easy
from the lake-- here in Arles
I tongue another coat of spitting paint
upon the dead center of her sex.
Never not a time I do not dismay
through evening's gnarl and laze,
how Laura’s formative cry starts
but adumbrates at the rim. Quaffs
in her throat bring something
from inside that pulls her back,
stops her below the brim.
Never not a time she did not want
her all-day tightness unwound.
Never not to ask, O please!—send
your open lips deep inside
my hunching chair and
leave them there.
But no use.
She stalls at that fecund second,
rolls her eyes to the time,
tells me to lift up, go out, gather
strawberries, the wings of female
butterflies, lady bugs
and rotting-ripe orgasmic pears.
The sun rises, sets and rises again--
fly away distant tiny birds,
fly home to Mandalay, sing in-caged
delightsand with your beaks,
heat the slippies of jungle Queens
mating exogamic upon woven mats
in their native Poon.
Should there have been a time?
Could it be explained by laws
of negative grammars
that there was never not a time
I did not love birds immense,
but small in distance-- birds
soaring above trees, and never not
a time I did not try to give her release,
by my lips, cock, or toys found
in dresser drawers-- and never,
not never leave her clogged,
sitting corked as a jug of shine,
stopped-up, sitting in her juice,
fingering her never-drying always
trying hot wet pelvic chair.
And never not a time I do not
want to leave Arles, take a train
to Kansas City.
##
dt
I am deep therein inside a hot and wet slide,
and many identities mingle in that frame--
but I am polite and I do as I am invited to do.
I observe the room around and the ceiling fan--
breezes a pant and another slithering moan.
Her throat is my perfect house and in adoration
does metaphor become metonymy-- eight parts
light, three dark, firm in a circle Euclidian, all points
tongued toward perimeter’s lay, equidistant from where
as a child she walked through the house
in heels, dressed for Opera in corded slip
paduasoy, fingernails painted to flick
at grooms holding Coach and Four.
Nearing her eighth birthday day she set cups of tea,
flat crackers and pretend cakes of dainty cheese,
and from down the lane pigtailed girls came to dine.
Once, when she was nine, 30 years ago,
her mother gone, and she was home all alone,
the fever came. Each tonsil scoop by doctor and pluck
by nurse brought the blood-- but nature’s clot
brought her back and now my life is but a stage
where she lives, and where she plays.
Yellow glisks of eight candle flames lend shadows
silent and pallorous light across my face
and heavy on the walls. My flesh protests delight
in the algebra she assigns-- I blow whiskey steam
above her Boolian lips. I hear her mummering whisper
and I see her righteous eyes and three crescented moons
ride their leisure in arcs above a carousel's peal--
above a kneeling sway of bending lombardy trees.
On the street oxen bells lead wagonloads
of poppy’s dream to the wharves where laughing girls
and pirates drunk wait sail tomorrow
to Singapore’s poon floating atop the China Sea.
Perfect her throat’s hold on my flesh
and my calculus of pleasure is sucked in mad swirls
of saliva and tongue just so-- a child grown
to a woman plays the abbacus in slow frenzy
seeking exogamic interplay with a cock,
and I counting the strands of her matted hair.
We were anxious that our guests complete
their fucking and leave. She made polite compunction,
zerodian inclines toward our evening guests-- now,
so perfect that all is quiet, our orgy complete,
and my face turns to the cross-eyed moon
curling beams down to the wide invitation to straddle
again in the traceries of her fine lines.
Elegant shadows in elephantine delight more than drear
and she is perfect, Muratorian, apotheosized, angelic
in her manipulations of oral musclulature-- she dines
on me as if I am ocean scrap and fine lobster
in Venetian spume,: and her pussy mingles scents
of kelp and paste iodine— her lips are scarlet dye,
and madder lines the scales shutting the droop
of violet lids--makes bulging her eyes.
My cravings for sums and divisions of things
are sorrows I fold inside sachet cloth, drawer
away inside her mouth, hide them by day away,
but at night I unfold to wave at trees and flag the wind--
I catch her rhythmed song soon as it pales
as through a closed door where I cannot see
or hear her words anymore. Entranced by her body’s
soft design, I watch her softened cheeks shallow and puff
while I decay, disappear— for I will never
again
see the sun.
##
Don Taylor
and many identities mingle in that frame--
but I am polite and I do as I am invited to do.
I observe the room around and the ceiling fan--
breezes a pant and another slithering moan.
Her throat is my perfect house and in adoration
does metaphor become metonymy-- eight parts
light, three dark, firm in a circle Euclidian, all points
tongued toward perimeter’s lay, equidistant from where
as a child she walked through the house
in heels, dressed for Opera in corded slip
paduasoy, fingernails painted to flick
at grooms holding Coach and Four.
Nearing her eighth birthday day she set cups of tea,
flat crackers and pretend cakes of dainty cheese,
and from down the lane pigtailed girls came to dine.
Once, when she was nine, 30 years ago,
her mother gone, and she was home all alone,
the fever came. Each tonsil scoop by doctor and pluck
by nurse brought the blood-- but nature’s clot
brought her back and now my life is but a stage
where she lives, and where she plays.
Yellow glisks of eight candle flames lend shadows
silent and pallorous light across my face
and heavy on the walls. My flesh protests delight
in the algebra she assigns-- I blow whiskey steam
above her Boolian lips. I hear her mummering whisper
and I see her righteous eyes and three crescented moons
ride their leisure in arcs above a carousel's peal--
above a kneeling sway of bending lombardy trees.
On the street oxen bells lead wagonloads
of poppy’s dream to the wharves where laughing girls
and pirates drunk wait sail tomorrow
to Singapore’s poon floating atop the China Sea.
Perfect her throat’s hold on my flesh
and my calculus of pleasure is sucked in mad swirls
of saliva and tongue just so-- a child grown
to a woman plays the abbacus in slow frenzy
seeking exogamic interplay with a cock,
and I counting the strands of her matted hair.
We were anxious that our guests complete
their fucking and leave. She made polite compunction,
zerodian inclines toward our evening guests-- now,
so perfect that all is quiet, our orgy complete,
and my face turns to the cross-eyed moon
curling beams down to the wide invitation to straddle
again in the traceries of her fine lines.
Elegant shadows in elephantine delight more than drear
and she is perfect, Muratorian, apotheosized, angelic
in her manipulations of oral musclulature-- she dines
on me as if I am ocean scrap and fine lobster
in Venetian spume,: and her pussy mingles scents
of kelp and paste iodine— her lips are scarlet dye,
and madder lines the scales shutting the droop
of violet lids--makes bulging her eyes.
My cravings for sums and divisions of things
are sorrows I fold inside sachet cloth, drawer
away inside her mouth, hide them by day away,
but at night I unfold to wave at trees and flag the wind--
I catch her rhythmed song soon as it pales
as through a closed door where I cannot see
or hear her words anymore. Entranced by her body’s
soft design, I watch her softened cheeks shallow and puff
while I decay, disappear— for I will never
again
see the sun.
##
Don Taylor
"#244565 Will be Released From Prison
Friday-- Puts Things in Proper Order"
I’m having walks in the rains this spring
after the winds of March and the winter snows--
after all these years, I’m having walks this spring.
I’m having solo picnics on grass this summer;
after the winds and snows and walks in the rain
I’m taking a basket down to the lake.
I’m having a woman of my own this fall,
after the wind and snows, rains and walks to the lake--
after all these years, I’m having a woman this fall.
Don Taylor
Friday-- Puts Things in Proper Order"
I’m having walks in the rains this spring
after the winds of March and the winter snows--
after all these years, I’m having walks this spring.
I’m having solo picnics on grass this summer;
after the winds and snows and walks in the rain
I’m taking a basket down to the lake.
I’m having a woman of my own this fall,
after the wind and snows, rains and walks to the lake--
after all these years, I’m having a woman this fall.
Don Taylor
Sunday, September 27, 2009
For Paul PSM
Use what you like or throw it in the can.
“Bitch”
My damned TV, I’ll watch what the fuck I want.
“For the 5th goddamned time, I could care less about your mother, so just shut the fuck up and go check on dinner.”
“We’ve been given our 3rd and final notice on the car note. You had better figure out what we’re going to do. We can’t be without a car. You know I have to take my mom for her chemo every day.”
“Fuck your mom. Why doesn’t your loser brother step in and take some responsibility?”
“How could you be so damned cruel?”
“Shut your pie hole. I’ve heard all I can stand from you tonight.”
The box of Winchester 150 grain was sitting in the closet shelf. Right next to the bottle of Gentleman Jim I got for Christmas. I’ll grab both.
The door scraped over the carpet as Jerry opened up the closet. He reached in for rounds and a round to go around. Grabbed the lever action John Wayne Special as well.
“Tomorrow, since you aren’t busy looking for a job, we can take mom out to Hometown Buffet, then go the park.”
The park. The mutherfuckin park. Why in the hell would I ant to do that? Last time, someone had left a pile of syringes under the swings in the playground. Nice. The fuck I’ll go to the park.
“Jerry, I know you never got along with mom, but her SSI checks help pay our bills.”
Maybe I’ll keep getting those checks too. Long after her body is buried in my back yard.
“Jerry…Jerry…are you listening to a word I’ve said?”
Box opened, and Jerry’s pushing each round into the tube magazine. Finally, he ratchets back the bolt with the lever, then slams a bullet into the chamber.
“Val.”
“Yes honey?”
“Come on here a bit. I have something for you. Something special.”
“What is it Jerry?”
“You’ll have a hard time shifting and driving with just the one arm.”
Inside the house, the sound was deafening.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Flow
Emma and Too Many Toys
I drew the curtains in her closet. Long ago, she had fought an epic battle against the sliding doors and won.
Monsters can no more breach a curtain than a door.
I closed her dressing drawers shut. The contents of her morning pillage threatening to spill clothing; a Crayola factory run by a mad hatter.
We opened the new book, first drawing in a deep breath of freshly minted pulp, then proclaiming that this was indeed, written by our mutually favorite author, David Shannon and his latest offering since No David No.
Shannon's work is only surpassed by the great David Pilkey, author of Captain Underpants.
But everyone already knows that.
(Continued in comments section. It occurred to me that I can avoid hogging the front page by using the comments section for longer pieces)
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Death of A Spirit Guide
The translucent membrane
of regret extends and expands
arousing slit wrists of resentment
that bleed into vacant spaces
better left unexplored.
No red cross nor wooden
stake can remove the rot
that festers behind
benign smiles
and tossed curls
of anguish. Desiccated
reveries cascade away
leaving only bone
and marrow for the sparrows.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Hue
Indigo is the color of Midnight midnight rests at the end of the tunnel violet is the miscegenation of yin and yang where hominus and feminus live in parity
SteamPunk Dialogue
I address you, and
you undress me
what am i to you?
you're a stream of consciousness
a bending river to my will
will you see me
thru my eyes
as I see
thru your lies?
I saw myself in the void
thru eyes the color of nothing
could you not see right thru me?
never before but
always since
then we are clothed in midnight...
Monday, September 21, 2009
For Naught
When your kiss lost its urgency
I could no longer lose myself
in your heat; once
I had been wax to that flame.
There was no momentous moment
to be marked when our
chemistry began to neutralize.
How odd we didn't know.
Embers cool while the
winds of everyday life
sweep away its ashes.
I believed you were everything,
but a retrospective view now allows
me to realize that I was naught.
Photo Finish
she road a rocking horse to the finish
in a race without a winner
and you bet on her
every
last
penny...
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Glacial Deposits
Our sabots
overflow with your
gallstones of wisdom.
Abandoned we rest
beneath the waterline,
plotters all.
Kill that which you
cannot have and
wander a tundra of
freeze dried disdain.
You may walk the earth
barefoot but...
we can always hear you coming.
Rouge Opposed To Rose
My father took me
to Schindler's list; he had a hard-
pressed point to make
and not the merits of pink over red.
blood runs no matter how it is mixed.
he wanted to show me Göth,
and Helen's power over him:
men do not destroy what
they most enjoy,
at least,
not completely.
.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
the memory of pipes
a ceiling undressed
poses defiant,
a home stripped
of bric-a-brac, derelict
linings of my heart
I enter and confess.
you claim your life
is different; it remains
a choice of the textures we mesh:
mettle and silk
lace and trust.
a milky spoonful of advice:
that chimera is your one
pure host.
.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Register
By the gaslight flames
I read your name
it's etched in stone
In the life you've left behind
you cast a shadow and a line
to those who follow
In this ink of midnight ran
the film noir life we planned
to end in sorrow
How then could you leap
not in faith
but by some deliberate turn
into the unforgiving cold?
Never twice the same
the flowing river drained
over the rocky falls
For every drifting orchid thrown
and in the amber light that shown
I said your name...
I read your name
it's etched in stone
In the life you've left behind
you cast a shadow and a line
to those who follow
In this ink of midnight ran
the film noir life we planned
to end in sorrow
How then could you leap
not in faith
but by some deliberate turn
into the unforgiving cold?
Never twice the same
the flowing river drained
over the rocky falls
For every drifting orchid thrown
and in the amber light that shown
I said your name...
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