my eyes bleed to claim the word fuse, should they not claim the word sounded, and twin the chemist's reprimand, arable either.*

you made my eyes bleed;
such poem
suffices;
such poem is:
gnarl mud on cement
as is the walked on geographic!

the head that promises tongues,
well, a fictive wet-dream.

with the la la's and the levellers you have a quartet, akin to: two people and two abstracts of the people mentioned; why write love poetry for love? why not write love poetry to make actual love unattainable? just wondering, because that's what you're doing!

well there's me walking into
the woods, muddying my shoes,
taking mud with lace onto pavements
against what my mother asking me
to not do: i love my cat, look
at my autistic bonsai tiger, look
at him, cleaning himself, ah,
cutie pie budgie, i'm having a beer
and i'm saying:
i was the drummer on billy joel's
we didn't start the fire* song...
huh? it's friday, why am i not
in the secular church of crucifix and disco ball
getting groovy like once repentant?
no seriously, i'm surprised it's friday:
here's me air-drumming a thump
to the silences ha ha: you're here too?
but then trying to remember a song,
a journalist writing out all-purpose-defence-dialectics
spotted that i too came across the levellers,
so before you craze and criticise...
i loved the song carry me;
and concerning the muddied shoes,
where you the man in sunset woods,
listening to the wake of owls and the rasp of crows?
where you me sitting on a stump of wood,
with crows and owls, exhausted sitting on
a stump of wood with beer and cigarette in hand...
where you me? where you me listening
to the synchronised claim of the darkened woods
with me and owls and crows? no, you weren't:
all **** free through to the future of me tangoing
with you where civilisation matters.

imagine a conductor who
orchestrated with an orchestra
but instead of using his hands
to imitate rhythm... used his head...
and rhythm guitar could
be noted down in drumming rhythm,
still the conductor head-banging
rather than rhyming a# with c and d-dur
with his head rather than his hands:
air drumming and i hammered that
head into a shark head worth a 17th century
wig because i was too lazy to brush or cut
my hair; we were all grey and retired
in the former fashion trend as now-days
shrunk flesh for saving fashioning materials
into contorted squares of leopards in leotards.

the internet is getting quirkier than expected,
lucky to be in the age brackets of 20 - 30
and single... it's like a *******
   freak-show out there!
hey, i dig midgets,
and the crass and the oompa loompas:
reservation for odd spelling and vocabulary
also welcome:
i'll wear a ****** on my head
and pretend to be wearing a balaclava
ready to outline a the end of a terrorist
plot if you tell me you're dyslexic backwards:
shrapnel and palette tourists of a broken
shell with the snail asking where ceramics came from?
i sent a postcard from there, i reserved the blank
space with words: i had three wishes, one of them
wasn't here (where's a jinni when you need one?
those scandinavians and gold herrings! /
slavs and gold ferns... well, play my trombone
will you?)

once it was **** and tatty snorkelling
in deep batter, now it's
smiles like violin sounds eager
with a toddler: so how hue youth then?!
i wanted to become a pianist before
being forced into being a father,
hey, give me a brake before i'm told to retire!

a cat sleeps in my bed,
and cautiously i inspect
snake eyers in fur
as if that *******
tailoring skin with leather
for care of cavern canvases:
as i am minded to care for
twin skeletons of ape and man
and eyes of mammal and lizard!
i am the familial tie as egg as thought
engraving the study of wombs
like the study of space and time,
for this is where the equations manage
balance! engraving upon engraving
to a shadowy replica
that you might keep both fish
and spiders in aquariums.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you