I.

Thou aged unreluctant earth who dost
with quivering continual thighs invite
the thrilling rain the slender paramour
to toy with thy extraordinary lust,
(the sinuous rain which rising from thy bed
steals to his wife the sky and hour by hour
wholly renews her pale flesh with delight)
—immortally whence are the high gods fled?

Speak elm eloquent pandar with thy nod
significant to the ecstatic earth
in token of his coming whom her soul
burns to embrace—and didst thou know the god
from but the imprint of whose cloven feet
the shrieking dryad sought her leafy goal,
at the mere echo of whose shining mirth
the furious hearts of mountains ceased to beat?

Wind beautifully who wanderest
over smooth pages of forgotten joy
proving the peaceful theorems of the flowers
—didst e’er depart upon more exquisite quest?
and did thy fortunate fingers sometime dwell
(within a greener shadow of secret bowers)
among the curves of that delicious boy
whose serious grace one goddess loved too well?

Chryselephantine Zeus Olympian
sceptred colossus of the Pheidian soul
whose eagle frights creation,in whose palm
Nike presents the crown sweetest to man,
whose lilied robe the sun’s white hands emboss,
betwixt whose absolute feet anoint with calm
of intent stars circling the acerb pole
poises,smiling,the diadumenos

in whose young chiseled eyes the people saw
their once again victorious Pantarkes
(whose grace the prince of artists made him bold
to imitate between the feet of awe),
thunderer whose omnipotent brow showers
its curls of unendured eternal gold
over the infinite breast in bright degrees,
whose pillow is the graces and the hours,

father of gods and men whose subtle throne
twain sphinxes bear each with a writhing youth
caught to her brazen *******,whose foot-stool tells
how fought the looser of the warlike zone
of her that brought forth tall Hippolytus,
lord on whose pedestal the deep expels
(over Selene’s car closing uncouth)
of Helios the sweet wheels tremulous—

are there no kings in Argos,that the song
is silent,of the steep unspeaking tower
within whose brightening strictness Danae
saw the night severed and the glowing throng
descend,felt on her flesh the amorous strain
of gradual hands and yielding to that fee
her eager body’s unimmortal flower
knew in the darkness a more burning rain?

                    2.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring
assembles beauty from forgetfulness
with the wild trump of April:witchery
of sound and odour drives the wingless thing
man forth in the bright air,for now the red
leaps in the maple’s cheek,and suddenly
by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress
ascends the golden crocus from the dead.

On dappled dawn forth rides the pungent sun
with hooded day preening upon his hand
followed by gay untimid final flowers
(which dressed in various tremulous armor stun
the eyes of ragged earth who sees them pass)
while hunted from his kingdom winter cowers,
seeing green armies steadily expand
hearing the spear-song of the marching grass.

A silver sudden parody of snow
tickles the air to golden tears,and hark!
the flicker’s laughing yet,while on the hills
the pines deepen to whispers primeval and throw
backward their foreheads to the barbarous bright
sky,and suddenly from the valley thrills
the unimaginable upward lark
and drowns the earth and passes into light

(slowly in life’s serene perpetual round
a pale world gathers comfort to her soul,
hope richly scattered by the abundant sun
invades the new mosaic of the ground
—let but the incurious curtaining dusk be drawn
surpassing nets are sedulously spun
to snare the brutal dew,—the authentic scroll
of fairie hands and vanishing with the dawn).

Spring,that omits no mention of desire
in every curved and curling thing,yet holds
continuous *******—through skies and trees
the lilac’s smoke the poppy’s pompous fire
the *****’s purple patience and the grave
frailty of daises—by what rare unease
revealed of teasingly transparent folds—
with man’s poor soul superlatively brave.

Surely from robes of particoloured peace
with mouth flower-faint and undiscovered eyes
and dim slow perfect body amorous
(whiter than lilies which are born and cease
for being whiter than this world)exhales
the hovering high perfume curious
of that one month for whom the whole years dies,
risen at length from palpitating veils.

O still miraculous May!O shining girl
of time untarnished!O small intimate
gently primeval hands,frivolous feet
divine!O singular and breathless pearl!
O indefinable frail ultimate pose!
O visible beatitude sweet sweet
intolerable!silence immaculate
of god’s evasive audible great rose!

                    3.

Lover,lead forth thy love unto that bed
prepared by whitest hands of waiting years,
curtained with wordless worship absolute,
unto the certain altar at whose head
stands that clear candle whose expecting breath
exults upon the tongue of flame half-mute,
(haste ere some thrush with silver several tears
complete the perfumed paraphrase of death).

Now is the time when all occasional things
close into silence,only one tree,one
svelte translation of eternity
unto the pale meaning of heaven clings,
(whose million leaves in winsome indolence
simmer upon thinking twilight momently)
as down the oblivious west’s numerous dun
magnificence conquers magnificence.

In heaven’s intolerable athanor
inimitably tortured the base day
utters at length her soft intrinsic hour,
and from those tenuous fires which more and more
sink and are lost the divine alchemist,
the magus of creation,lifts a flower—
whence is the world’s insufferable clay
clothed with incognizable amethyst.

Lady at whose imperishable smile
the amazed doves flicker upon sunny wings
as if in terror of eternity,
(or seeming that they would mistrust a while
the moving of beauteous dead mouths throughout
that very proud transparent company
of quivering ghosts-of-love which scarcely sings
drifting in slow diaphanous faint rout),

queen in the inconceivable embrace
of whose tremendous hair that blossom stands
whereof is most desire,yet less than those
twain perfect roses whose ambrosial grace,
goddess,thy crippled thunder-forging groom
or the loud lord of skipping maenads knows,—
having Discordia’s apple in thy hands,
which the scared shepherd gave thee for his doom—

O thou within the chancel of whose charms
the tall boy god of everlasting war
received the shuddering sacrament of sleep,
betwixt whose cool incorrigible arms
impaled upon delicious mystery,
with gaunt limbs reeking of the whispered deep,
deliberate groping ocean fondled o’er
the warm long flower of unchastity,

imperial Cytherea,from frail foam
sprung with irrevocable nakedness
to strike the young world into smoking song—
as the first star perfects the sensual dome
of darkness,and the sweet strong final bird
transcends the sight,O thou to whom belong
th ehearts of lovers!—I beseech thee bless
thy suppliant singer and his wandering word.

Off on a tangent
My fingers in transient
Clasping and clutching
sensing and touching-
While they still can,
Before our crossroads split
And exigency omits
That peculiar feeling of familiarity
And all absconds that impression of clarity
Then it is goodbye
With all relics of that high
All remnants of our contingence
Because our futility is insistent

You will often find me dreaming
Here on my lonesome, lying in bed
In my darkened room and wondering
What will become of me. Whether
The days shall pass by without
Me seeing a smile or the gleaming sun.

For there is nothing but the sun
To make you enjoy life, enjoy dreaming.
Who could go every other day without
The lovely thoughts you think in bed.
I imagine it being unnerving, whether
Or not your dreams are full of wondering.

I have vivid thoughts, often wondering
Why I’m free of nightmares which hide the sun
From many others. My question is whether
My mind omits such terrible dreaming
Immediately as I awake safe in bed.
Why must I be the one to go without?

There is no harm in I going without
Though it does provide me with the wondering
Of how such a thing can be, my bed
Is where I can escape to, escape the sun
And what comes with it. No dreaming
Can be done with such blinding weather

I often think to myself and question whether
Or not I can truly say that I go without
Having a single nightmare. The dreaming
That I do is so bizarre and leaves me wondering
How it would feel to fear the burning sun,
To fear falling asleep, to fear lying in bed.

How would it feel to fear lying in bed?!
Not wishing to allow yourself sleep. Whether
Or not you could fear such a thing when the sun
Is such a beautiful thing, and the moon, without
Them both our world would be left wondering,
Asking this question to themselves ‘Am I dreaming?’

So make your bed now, or go without.
Whether you choose to remain wondering
About the sun, about the moon, you’re dreaming.

Do not spoon feed me,

with your fleshy hand


Love has no palate

He's pompous and bland



My belly is tumid

your cream is too thick



You blaze with the fire

our flame has no wick



You burn me to ash

say, "I don't feel a thing"



Light a few matches

your heart doesn't sting



Smoke like a chimney

see if I care



Go on, get wasted

you've minutes to spare



Why not let liquor,

dictate your life?



She's done it before

she'll make a good wife



She won't let you drive

she won't let you speak



She sounds like most women

what more do you seek?



Your blunt and your flask,

they make a good pair



The flask omits me

the blunt omits air



I often bite

I'm like the wind



'Forgive me father?

I have sinned'



Of the seven deadly,

is pride the worst?



Shall I speak with God

or Satan first?



If I ask for God,

I find a queue



If I ask for Satan,

I find you



Is God the devil

when he's drunk?



Has he fits of rage?

Has his liver shrunk?



I love God

you are him, my fiend



Though you've never been handsome

Though you've never been kind



I bleed darkness

down a rusty drain



God, you are my darkness

God, you are my pain

The first time you asked me if I trusted you, I said "yes"
The second time you asked, I said "it depends"
But when the third time came around I answered with a "no"
Because after all this time, how could I trust someone who lies, and omits, and only speaks with half-truths?
Someone who hides their feelings deep inside never to be revealed?
It's not that I don't want to trust you, but you don't trust me
And I can't risk another one of your betrayals, because it would **** me

Lovely thoughts are shackles.
They invoke what even the microscope
omits from the commentary
Well-prepared cups of tea on Sunday afternoons
The dragging of fountain pens retracing ornate loops.

Each a relief from the threat of whatever crisis interred
by the quiet of a room
The practical, the indulgent, without progression.

The contemporary pastoral
is to be found
Amongst old boxes
of  boy's adventure paperbacks
and girl's glitterworn and broken hairbrushes
Shooting the mind off to tragedies
whirring still away at even further distances.

Memories, like sentiments
when copacetic
Provoking always the invasive link
the dependent, the pathetic.

A picture of a doomed ship in storm
Hung on the red carpeted wall of a restaurant

A jar of olives
left untouched
for decorative purposes
in the old grain store
which now serves unfiltered coffee
and plays loud but pleasing music
'til 6 p.m.

What I have spoken of are McGuffins.
The mind distracts.
Yes, the mind encounters,
we discover, we make lists.
But if you can remember
minutiae, try then to remember
History is the repetition of revelations.
The reel does not cut off.

In short,
don't congratulate
Yourself about life
until you've at least seen the nursing home.

I want to write a poem that smells like perfume
that flits and that flips through a rose-tinted room
all wispy and wet and cosmic and cool

I want to write a poem that omits all the grease
the fierce firing squad, pimps, perverts, police
to tickle your fancy and make you go guuguu

I want to write a poem that moves through your veins
like sweet fairy dust not shackles and chains
be part of the pop cult, feel the pulse, feel the pulse

I want to write a poem that travels lit-up highways
with no broken bulbs, no sirens nor slipped gears
without red-danger zones nor emergency phones

I want to write a poem with soft cuddly toys
and trinkets and things that make no loud noise
to nibble your chin and that sort of thing

I want to write a poem with an innocent face
that softens your edges and slows down your pace
'til you're won and you're one and you purr and you hum

I wanted to I really did
2015

the smoke from his lips
quietly omits into the dark

he turns to face me with
his bloodshot, glossy eyes

"i want you" the drugs said

the substance in his system
had complete control over him.

- you never wanted me

I cradled the unfurling shed snakeskin delicately
admiring the imprint of faces and places
swallowed up in time.

An ancient amative light sat patiently
on the blank sheet
before the electric medium;
the electric medium sitting buzzing
eager to tell another silent story.

I wrapped the skin around its spindle;
and from its den I extracted slowly and cautiously,
urging the skin into the hungry buzzing medium--

And minute punctures in the skin,
where the projector's teeth sink in,
whose teeth chatter like plastic wind up dentures
as the skin passes snake-like through its dusty plastic entrails.

The tattooed skin is illuminated at the heart of the vessel--
where the countenance of a single solitary bulb
omits a radiance, brilliant and magnificent--
powerful enough to cast the skin like a shooting star
across the darkened room

onto the patient white sheet
where my eyes await the tattooed memories
to dance before me.

I sit in my torn and weathered leather chair
echoing the silence of the screen--
(hypnotized by the hum of the projector--
an incessant electrical drone accompanied by the bombinate
incantations of chattering crickets.)

The stories are shielded from my inquisition
by layers of translucent grain
that leave textures gritty--
and a soft focus that leaves faces obscure
and expressions ambiguous.

(How clever you are to stay silent,
and leave me in such tempestuous musings!)

Vast pores pop up excitedly burned and scabbed intrusions
and if you linger for too long
the brilliance of the glare will burn into you--

Like the shaman who dances too close to the holy fire.
Like Apollo flying too close to the sun.

I must be careful,
and fully aware--
of your transience.

These ambulant hieroglyphs
speak volumes in their silence--
and I find myself drawn
to the blurry smiling faces
as they peer into my soul.

History breathes.
and History repeats.
but lies silent
in the sands of Time.
Becoming muddled,
but waiting.
for its story to be told;
for the mediums to rise from the grave.

I suddenly agnize myself as the last generation
to have its memories and histories burned onto tape.
and as I sit here I wonder
of the Society
whose soul I will peer into--
when I am unearthed
out of the sands of Time.

A poet doesn't lie,
       a poet omits
the suppressed thoughts and sensations
she will never forget
The painful memories she hopes to create,
       The ill-tempered words
       tied to strings of hate that
L o o p--
             a reoccurring
             pattern of
              maladjusted
             thinking

  A sense of dread churns in your gut,
writhing behind your chest cavity,
invading your consciousness,
shutting it down

       Perspiration begins,
and the rattling in your bones
Nausea sets in,
    reeling your blood
   It's happening again,
            this you know,
but time will not tell
when this attack will go

Your throat constricts
                   while time afflicts
everything you've kept inside--
the emotions you've kept alive
       when you should have set them free
captives of your debauchery
they've transformed into something ugly,
           the wretch of scorn and self-pity
and have unleashed their vengeance
for smothering them with poisons
       depriving them of breath,
and of their destiny

They're doing unto you,
what you did unto them,
       killing you tediously,
disrupting your mind with
   irrational fear
and depleting the dopamine
transmitted through your system
to plague you with indifference
towards reality
          The symptoms it carries
manipulate your thought-process,
restarting the l o o p--
                     a reoccurring
                     pattern of
                      maladjusted
                     thinking

This is what life is, we don't really know where we're going, it is an every second exploration and observation of the time that passes us by. This is what it is to live.
We take part in making choices for ourselves which sometimes affect those around us, we have energy that the earth omits and energy, we emit.
Movement.
Our brains are like pieces of granola in a big bag, not one piece is exactly the same.
So we watch life, take part in it, to try and form into a "person", we make this game of living worth while.
But some of us, wonder, what is our purpose? How did we end up here? How did the earth form itself and progress into such a technologic, crime-infested, polluted, whirly world.
Non-Utopia.
This place can be such a wreck, everything can be seen different throughout each of our pair of eyes, or we may just have one eye or colorblind eyes.
Perceptions.
I don't really ever pay attention or even look at every part of my body and study it. It's amazing to me how intricate each ***** and our entire body is, how our body is such a team. Everything works together and if one thing goes wrong, we have our blood cells and other things inside of us that will back us up. It's incredible, but do we ever really wonder how we were made, what the real roots are, not just our mothers and fathers, but way back when....

The glossy raven-crow perches on the wire,
Its carefully-preened wings glistening
With perfect drops of moisture.
It surveys its domain with coal-black eyes—
Coal-black, but not void, not empty—
Black with all the absorbed knowledge,
The deep black of knowing too much,
The tacit black of the extraterrestrial skies.
The raven-crow omits a sound into the air,
Silent to some, but volumes to others.
The raven-crow spoke directly to the air,
And the air understood the message.
The two share the deeply-seated secret,
So it’s not as much a burden as before.
The sun falls into the embrace
Of the curvature of the Earth.
The raven-crow, having received its cue,
***** its obsidian wings once more,
Sending crystal tears to shatter midflight.

There is no such thing as freedom because you can play God
because he only pretends to sit in his sofa castle
laughing at your foolishness
eating your baby noodles

Anyone can play this game but I won't stand for it
because spilling their guts makes it criminal
because it makes me liberal
like it's all okay

Their cynical smirks and superior rationale
burn me alive into a ******* Charleston
I curse them all and **** them all
and I am ****** for it

Words of evil percieved only as evil by the weak
because killing and ****** is a neccessity
a demand for destiny which the world stages
it's freedom for all but the just

I know I know nothing unlike all the other pigs
they can cheer and chortle because they're boxed in their world
epileptic to my hare-ful truth that means nothing
because I am an ignoramus who is free

To the glamour dressed diesel alcoholic
to the giraffe-wearing radicalist
to the artistocratic plum-picking *******
to the uneducated, ****-smoking secretary
to the briefless, cold-handed ******
to the green-spiked punk with a polarized attitude
to the one who sent nukes overseas to G**bless other countries
I pity your concealment; your pathetic, two-dimensional box

For I know nothing, so when you find me
Sit me down, and shoot me in the ******* head
Because you wish you had nothing like me

So find me and burn me on the stake
Huff the audacity my smoking flesh omits
Breed your Reptilian filth over my dead body

A tremor, an empty cup of tea,
next to my veinous hands,
there is a cat sitting at the table.
Large as a bear, fat and bulging,
With whiskers as long as the wings of an albatross
and a tail that knocked over a lamp.

Cat flourishes his claws and says:
"Midnight has passed, why where you imagining me before I was?"
Rain enters the room,
pulls his thick, heavy coat around him and omits an
odour of nightly summer pavement.

What a gang, the three of us!
Collected to outlive the night.
When Sun rises and wipes away all that Rain has accomplished,
when Morning comes and clears the fog and ideas,
Cat is yet to be imagined.

Heaven whispers peace in my
Ears, it rings so
Loudly, so all encompassing, too
Long has it been since its toll.

Ice freezes balefully on the borders,
Smooth lines drawn on the edge.

Careful grace,
Omits and voids any fears, any
Malicious shadows of a doubt.
I walk among these clouds,
Not seeing that it is all
Going so well.

I have come to memorize the simple things like, your face or the way you look at me when I laugh
it's your voice I'm trying to find
I see your lips moving
and your sculpted teeth
and the way your eyes crinkle up into a smile
but your mouth omits those sounds of a stranger
a blend of noises I have heard before
but where's your voice? I can't hear it but
I can see it
                                                              ­             [you are lovely]

Even from across the room
Violet crescent moons age her youthful face
Black makeup smudged under her eyelashes
And hair in a messy bun but still slightly curled
The only remnants of the night before
Evidence of a snoozed alarm and
Lack of sleep

Exhausted
Both mentally and physically
She tries desperately to grasp full consciousness
As she begins her work

Earbuds submerged in her ears
Leaving the world around her behind
Engulfing her into a world of art
Both visual and musical
Where sonnets become songs
And bars of notes start to form beauty

Eraser shavings everywhere
Either on the paper or pushed aside
Her hands move swiftly to the beat
For once just let me lose myself
And she does
In her art

She glances back and forth between papers
One a model and one her masterpiece
Not fully formed
Precision is key
Perfection
Ruler to ensure exactness
Eraser to rid of mistakes

She draws one line perfectly straight
And leans back
She contemplates and shakes her head
Then omits it
Goes back again to draw another
A twin to the first

The process is endless
Striving for impossible perfection
When true imperfect goodness is there

Underneath the frustration and complexity
Is simple and utter beauty
What is perfection
When you can have art?

*December 2013

I am consumed by
negative spaces,
floating in between
death and the void,
looking for reason
that won't come
and there is no use
in running from darkness
when it's what brought us
here at birth
and the only thing
we part with in the dirt

If the way out is through,
why do they stay and
mock the despair
behind my eyelids?
They laugh as I search for
purpose that doesn't exist
in lieu of aliens that
I swear are real,
when reality has always been
my Achilles heel

It's a dance of avoiding gravity
until inevitability strikes
a heavy blow, that life is
random circumstance
siphoning into black holes,
a collection of moments
that we will forget to remember,
but how does one find peace
without answers?

Daylight starts peeking in
to see if I'm okay,
I disguise the sentiment
as irrelevant
when I could really use a break
from this carousel of fear
that only
wants me to want more
as if I am owed a life
that is somehow past due,
checked out by someone
who was less afraid
to step outside of their room

Sunlight omits
more concern over
reckless abandonment
as it greets my pacing force,
but there is no stopping
what was designed
without brakes,
carried by all the love and hate
that glorifies impulse to
sift through emptiness:
a sacrifice to this
blank screen
that consumes me with dread
over a deathless dream
stuck inside my head

Worthless stories from the drunken source, Create the hovel and this curse.
What lies ahead in despair,
As laughter and scoffs fill the air.
Oh, could it be my dignity or maybe even shame?
All that's left is stale *** breathe and tears from everyday.

These puddles grow into a lifestyle,
I can't let time stay for a while.
Noone is going to be sorry,
Blood omits the story.
So carry out the rest of luck with help from the abandoned.
And let this problem be the first of many to be done with.

Traveling by sea, as the darkness omits light onto thy tide, I have no place to run, and no place to hide, my fear is cold and my strength can't die, I've kept head above water for so long, and now with my deepest and darkness cry, as I stare at the sky, and ask; why try, why cry, wait I don't deserve to die, while I cry my final sigh.......

If found her beauty, then have found my eyes:
As painter's draw their muse, do mine of hers;
That when in blink her lovely youths apprise
Depicting truth as tho' by glass transfers;
No dreaming brush omits the slightest curve
Nor other light bestow that grace increase;
That artistry does best by mind preserve
So she through time bare not of time's decrease.
Yet could the years by force of cruel age,
Redraw by season's pen what I had drawed?
No! Art's the soldier 'gainst what time can wage;
Whilst skin may crease, by heart is none withdrawn!

But when her portrait's gaze outlasts my time
This canvas shall replace her frame with rhyme.

In life I wear a mask, in death a grave
This mask is kingly borne to fit the great.
To place remains in grounds with nothing to save.
The mask after my life is just my fate.

To say to smile futile, I have no eyes
They ask why don’t you wear a hat.
I scream disguise is pain to hide my cries
A cap inadequate, I have no use for that.

The parts of life I need to keep today
Will go below as people say their last
The epitaph omits my private ways
The skeleton is still in closets, past.

Headstone is speaking from beyond my death.
To search for truth until not one is left.