A Two-Doored Edifice Hanging Over the Clouds

Subside,
you shelves of clouds
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky orange glows.
Stormy vision plague the skin
like boils of an Eastern flea,
how these concrete hours
cling to the bed in rough concourse
only is striking when the day paces around
for lack of better task
or night explodes
in order to carry itself
twice around the Earth.
With a bruised neck,
poet cranks his bones to shift
towards the shore-rock sky formation
that dances in evening dance halls.
As a few thoughts gather
to play the limber weather waltz,
passive sights sit in comfortable wooden seats
fixing their shoelaces
untying the knots in their ties.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes and tongue
begins to resent itself
as the image of the ball dissolves behind time
and all the dancers grab their coats
hurling themselves out of the stores
in fear of fright.
The great sky sculptures
standing outside the hall
are so telling of these days;
quiet stone watching all them run
and letting their weary sculpted eyes tear
at the first sight of dying beloved dark.
Hollow holes in the cyclical moonlit roof
push themselves out of the rain
past immortal sunshine
into the mouths of the dead
who grab at the ankles
of the last man dancing
to a slow accordion
choking on the last notes of the riot.

As the hanging greys and blacks
heavily drifted
deep back to bursting blue and egg-yolk orange,
as it all collided with the poet's veil,
a hand lets off the last dancer's collar
and those trampled in the rush out the door
are smiling in lieu of atonement.
The dreamland ache of melancholy
has found itself captured in the
walking manifestation
in the ballroom of the reasonably absurd.

Whirling Hope

Waking up to a thirsty blue sky,
crawling with juices out the clouds
all the world rises for a call
shrouded in tone of whimpering certainty.
Many deaths mark the screen,
children shout the songs of sickness
and the poets pace back and forth
around the dirty outskirt busstops.
The stop watch on the flashing hand
is halting in its ticking steps,
the artists limp
in the city center
out of confused madness
for the forgotten murkiness
brought about by the dearly departed
dark night.

In secession of successive seconds,
the poets kiss the painters
both hoping to hold the seasons
close to their tongues
as blanketing smoke clogs the dawn
and breaks the moon into
springtime shards.

New Springtime Hum

There is no shivering
during the subtle return
marked by brushed-green fallow fields.
Prose stirs no call
as my hand breaks line
each time I try to turn
a sentence over onto
its thin lyrical belly.
On days where I utter no phrase
and my voice trembles at thoughts so lofty
an echo wakes me
into wide-arm greetings
marked by the muteness
wrought by bedside musings,
and the huming drone of bees.
My pastoral sights
do no fall or fail
even when I touch the rust
dwelling,
drowning at the bottom of the fairest local stream.
When diving into shimmering passions,
each press of flesh sinks into my forehead
as I close my eyes to dance in a painting
possibly to sing in a chorus
of notated bedsheets.
"Poet!
You speak loudly
about these passions and memory
the reoccuring absurdity of life
which our makings of matter
surely have done away with!
It all howls undoubtedly
a cry of a primitive age!"
So I have heard say
the men and women of dear contrasts and selection.
No mind to them,
for rumour has it
that they have forgotten how to dance;
the machines move for them

Rummaging betweens the lines of nostalgia and longing,
these quiet times
met by shortfalls
press my lips upward
in a seizure of remembrance
to mark the march of feet
pitter-pattering in a luscious circle.

Garden Muse

I danced the wonders of the lawn
sun inspired by
the trembling blades
leaning on all sides of me.
Through wandering heather-hung hills
gray-greased castle walls
two story buses and all,
I let my tongue and head wander
only allowing them to speak by way of
the caves crawling into my eyes.
While quietly scribbling their sights
by the callousness of hill-climbing feet,
I reside from the hardened translators
to press my fork into fried tomatoes chips and pavement
to taste the touch of a sunny day
where my back hangs alongside a willow tree.
Sticking to the follicles leaping
from the cracks in my browning skin
the city writes its rhythmic spell before me
to conger cast and curse
a belly never satisfied
with neither hunger nor feast.
While mademoiselle memory holds
her black hair back
at the edge of the road,
on a spiked iron fence
my fresh reflections reside.
I wish to climb and greet them
but the bus is leaving soon
and the young physique of the madame
will surely captivate me
taking most of the remaining minutes.
In the coffee cup bubbles below,
I can see
my own ripening face;
no need for a mirror
when I can always look there
or over to the hazy sea.
Maybe I could even gaze
at the lush lawn
in tiny Nicholson Gardens
or the royal works of botany
steps from my door.
Hang on to the bucking bull
that is greasy American life my dear!
Whether you turn your head or not,
I assure you I will soon be there
to sop up the fat
with a spire-laden Scottish sponge.
I do hope-
between cobbled alley-ways-
that along the long stretch of screaming roads
mademoiselles joy and memory
are sharing a cab
to visit my underfoot under-stairs room,
where I bide my golden time
by way of the Firth of Forth.

Leaping in a Step

Stinking skin-
tasty radiated glow harmony
bursts in shards from a
humid youth-sung instrument.
Each note
spews a wave
foaming with haunting aesthetic;
projected onto a gravitational screen
lucidly playing itself over and over
as a backdrop
amidst the tumbling of your doings
and these sun-scraped scribblings.
So, soft voice
do you know what feet tread
so breathless and daintily upon curled toes
upon a storm-licked mind
curious with the spine of the sky?
I lay dripping concious
plain and full
propelled by two-leg motor
scraping up the dirt
to flood its flesh-paneled exterior.
The glistening on my forehead
is the fruit of ripened strides,
shimmering
from unsought words
locked in the cool sublime taste
deep in the tree-top folly and breezy smiles,
all the short-comings met by
spread arms and wide backs
while the sun opens its door
as it turns towards the face of night.
As the circle greets and rejoices
I walk away
with my shadowed musings
in the wake of bubbling springtime,
whistling for a perked ear
to catch on heat-drenched paths.

Stare of Thunderstorm Days

I tend to keep orange peels
sinking into the sinews sketched into
the dark tunnel shouldered by lips.
The fragrance of browning rinds
tends to make amends with my taste
in a fit of spawned sour heat
that my collective day-dream
finds tantalizing,
no matter the caustic tongue's touch.
The mouth's helm scurries into excitement
on such open-window white-paint high rise joy
that my heds leads me to shake
in a frantic pouncing dance
that causes my breaths to be locked
amidst a red faced quietness
capturing each forward vision
in want of some sweet fruit,
no matter the melancholic roots.

Oh, to Be the Dirt

Have I not sharpened
my tongue on moss-stricken rocks
while resting my head in
the very naked day that
broke the chains
eating away at my dirty fat
as I wandered heavily
in the sweat stung strength of spring?
This gifted stanza wrought gab,
rising from folded paper wounds
screaming of shadowy names,
has battered me on my atmospheric back
closing in the curtains of a the day
like dark-dressed stage hands
about to set scene
for the most wonder-filled play of them all.
I cut the membrane in front of me
with this pointed pen
and aforementioned tonuge
to let the blood of marvels
run jagged through my eyes.
I puncture the veil
of this doomed two-eyed vision
with the sharp edges of the notebook,
and I slash and dice my limbs
to let them fall on the jeweled earth
in hope that they too
will crumble like the leaves
and become the better
part of my descriptions.

Sleep is Yelling in this One-Half Room

My sleep has been yelling.
Put this hoarse cry to rest
so I may rest my head
to do the work of a poet.
Kiss the salt turned colonnade
with the wet lips
of my genealogy.
I speak to you
night time musings,
you who touch my cheek
with a pounding chant
groaning its rhythm
in the cranial halls of my pillow.
Swirling on top of the white walls
are the lost lingering words
that never dared to paint
my automatic musings onto
the milky sweat gleaned canvas
I joyously press my hand against
on murky window evenings.
The eyes cannot close still,
this room is one-half of itself
the pages of the inky receiver
lay open and off past the white lines of roads
distant from the blanks between sentences
you stand over my passions wake
rearranging the fate of logic
so my young legs may grow
for then I may see you
even past great emerald mountains,
over battered seas of dry sleep.
With this bone cradled lighthouse in mind,
I find my away across this sea
onto a full comfort
that quells the screams of
this one-half room.

Absurdity's Grace

This is how the vision
did dare subside
in a flashing pregnant moment:

You booming shelves of clouds,
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky burning light
deeply entrenched with the mist of a sublime glow
I gaze at you-
proudly freeing the instinctive infant
in times so fearfully and falsely set aside.
Stormy visions have lately plagued the skin,
boils of a pensive Eastern flea
scorn these caged hours
as the bed finds itself being the raft
amidst cancerous day-distraught times.
With a bruised neck I
crank my bones to shift
my gaze towards the seashore-grey
formation dancing in evenings halls,
as a few well-dressed thoughts gather themselves
to play the limber weather-wearers
a few festive songs.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes
begins to resent itself
as the evening image dissolves behind hills
-I tug and grab at my jacket to
hurl myself over my fright;
the great sky sculpture
(all too telling of these days)
begins to wither hopelessly
as the darkness begins to pull itself
from the rain-day's emaciated sunlight cycle.

As the heavy hanging grays and dirty pales
heavily drift
into the deep haze of blue and orange,
as it all collides
with the poet's veil,
I let my hand off my collar
breathing in a smile of
atonement
for the dreadful hauntings of melancholy
have found themselves captured in
the waking manifestation of sight.

Corps drapé au feu des éclats de la lune

Couvre-moi en feu!
Peut-être je peux allumer
le chandelier entre ton main
et le mienne.
Le jour est prêt d'exploser tranquillement...
comme un petit rêve
cyclique et plein
de l'air d'électricité .
Ma peau se salit par
les éclats du ciel;
et tienne a un gout
aux nuits sur le lit
passé comme le tableau
plus pittoresque...
Écoute-moi!
Je ne suis pas religieux
mais je prie maintenant
en chantant mon chanson aux printemps;
je prie que tu bois bien ces mots
(on connais que nous avons tous soifs).
Mais je peux pas
réciter ces mots en anglais;
désolé...
mon langue arrêtera
au première mot
je suis certain de ça.
Même-si tu ne comprends pas
les lettres entre ces phrases français,
tu peux glisser sur la glace
aux fenêtres du bâtiment
des mes sentiments.
Aux mes yeux,
je peux te montrer
ce que je veux dire
mais personne n'a pas cette patience
dans notre ère.
Alors...
lis ce que j'écris!
Lis les lignes frémissement
dans mon voix.
Je jette mes espères au nuit
mais heureusement pour moi,
tu y vis
à côté de la lune,
poussant mes lèvres
avant les tiennes.

Brief Statement for a Bed Too Big

The laughter I want to see inside
cannot be forced from the faucet like water.
In the next breath
the effort will be there.
Pumping from the well
the joy locked inside the crags;
deep beneath the bedrock
within the fabric of the sheets
among the lofty heights of the
cycle of day.
All the air taken
will try not to be thrown back out
into the void of a lost body.
Fading into the A.M.
here is a roar in an envelope
a raucous laugh
or a sigh too loud to be contained
nonetheless here it is
on the dusty desk I keep.

Rest will not come easy
as long as these sighs choke,
and sure enough tonight
I do not breathe from my mouth.

With my breathe lost,
I aimlessly gasp
and roll around the dirtied sheets
soiled from days of taciturn dreams
and roll I must
flattening today's dough
for tomorrow's bread.
Tomorrow morning
I will awake hungry.

Hope in Morning

Each night as sleep
catches way onto my vessel
as it slinks away from harbor,
the birds' calls sound pas and dance
around my windows and shades
framing the panes with harmonious aches
of world weary breezes and eyes-shut distances.
I am finding a chirp
amidst the twilight roar
that is choking the new dawn,
cutting its throat and spilling the blood
onto deep carpets of dark.
Song of my slumber,
this echo of a chorus,
may you continue on your narrow path
paved with bright melodies
while I continue to drink
the velvet syrup inside my head.

Harmony of Two Flesh Covered Lands

Swallow me in a hurling backlash
of ox-driven madness
pushing the dirt in my brain
to hearty crops of a
sun soaked heart.
But the frost has not yet subsided
"and your dear hands can not yet
pick flowers from this field"
so speaks the season.
The budding floral spectacle
soon will rise
side by side, I wish,
among my dutiful fields.
I lay in patience and in good comfort
under the leafless tree
the page-full notebook
the touched pillow,
ready to breathe deep
the melodious aria
penned by springtime
wherein you will arise
from the tremolo of March,
as a bursting chrysanthemum.

If It Were All a Cycle

Whirlwind comma placer,
sleep well tonight and let your
tired head come crashing down
upon my sentiments' wild grace
-let these be your pillowtop and bedspread.
I can only give my wishes and intentions
a bit of passion,
and these few reasons
held between the cracks running
across my hands
-after all I am only a sum of events
a photo of a portrait of moustachioed relatives
and a stargazer.
Seeing as how you are in motion
I have come to terms
that I too am a blur.
Eyes closed shimmering laugh
-it rings within my head
leaving the echo of splendid voice
playing back the song of
a warm inception.
And if that Ubermensch was right,
it will forever be ringing
eternally reoccuring
for the sake of my passion
and the weight on this life's shoulders.
If a demon were to rise
beneath my bed tonight
and tell me each moment
will play itself over and over
as time stretches its fabric
I would not strangle the creature
but pet its head
thinking of the constant laughter
hitting the back of my skull.

Atomic Caricature

Tugging the corners of the horizon
-new morning pulls its woollen façade
over the face of omniscient twilight
as the man in the moon is off painting
my portrait atop a nebula canvas.

Down below on the muddy ground
I ready the back of my throat
in preparation to promisingly greet
the whirlwind piece of art HELLO BONJOUR
venturing from the dark photon velvet
cut around an unseemly gravitational frame.

The hand of a god is teasing me
covering my portrait with a hazy vale
thick with liquid light and smoky skylines.
I see the canvas
marked with swirling photons
pushing themselves up and down
flashing back and forth
leaving me to bask in
what half of myself is lightly planted
on the gritty ground.

Then the image fades
leaving the weight of my body
and a foggy atomic caricature in my head.

Farewell but with no sorrow
-in this exhalation
I speak to the flailing thread
hanging as I push
my feet forward onto a
sand choked shore where
the salt spray tastes sweet
but the touch of the tongue
is not fooled by the waters' bitter rush
as a wave pours its life into the throat
cutting short a breath
cuing the senses
to rush and dance and fornicate in a mutiny
of delight and excitement
and warning.
Just like centuries before
the moon wanes
and I can see the portrait
hanging in the halls of a crater.

"STOP YOUR MELANCHOLY SIGHS
I ASSURE YOU THERE IS ENOUGH
ROOM ON THIS CANVAS
FOR ME TO PAINT A LANDSCAPE
OR A BEDSIDE BESIDE YOU
LET ME CUT YOUR VEINS
NO MATTER THAT YOUR BLACK BLOOD
WILL LAND ON THE SHORE
IT WILL BE WASHED AWAY
BY THE SEA"
Said the star dwelling lips
of the artist at large.
I held out my arm
a sharp slice of my flesh
fell onto my feet
and out poured my breath
out flowed the black blood
it followed the red and black streaks
of twenty-first century bile
into the sea
to be swallowed by the pounding surf
to be tasted in the back of my throat
when my own portrait falls on me
and I land face first into the tide.