rope

he supplied you with endless diamonds
but all you wanted were little
kisses,
and some rope.
to make you feel
your youth

slip around
just once more.

Amnesia

As empty as the bush
inside of george.

sweet sixteen

she is young and still,
restless, not yet wise
but wise enough.

touch her hair, it shines.
it shines for us, like water
thought the sun. like
words shaped into song
and sung. upbeat melody

plainly speaks of youth,
and the sad truth of age.

sneaking on her skin,
you would take her heart
and rob it of a beat,
just a hum though;
a bar perhaps.

for the end is whistling,
as it always must.
and your ear has caught the
tune.


.another one for mbs.

when it rains

we are like loony toons
stepping onto colour frames,
slouching out from
black and white


where steamy cups and
steamy fucks entwine,
dim rain shades the day.

life fondles us like
Mother's hand, hung
upon the crib.


we fuck and fuck

and yet you dissolve;
leaving a ghost
of bitterness.
a million tears shine
upon the window pane,

all for you.


for mindbodysoul. i suppose.

to drown in shallow water

by the underpass, slip of a girl;
wide eyes,
glances at his paper dreams floating down
the drain way.

throws out a "how's it goin‘...?". heavy in the air,
he wants her lips. in a boys fashion,
with tented jeans and crooked smile,
hair mucked about by silly wind.

crouches,
denim seams come undone,

he is shy now.
sinks into the muddy water,
dreams and all float on by.


for jen. in part.

coffee and cigarettes

there were clouds in her coffee,
so she said, but all i saw were
the limbs of cigarettes.

and strokes of ash, those tender
markings, left by lovers
long gone;
scorched upon her flesh.

.born of starr.

catshipgrin II

face with a post-it note
grin.
cats hackles rise,
but she is unfazed
by this jealous turn.
indeed, not a girlish
grin but one reserved
as the wine label teste-
ments.

tasty face,
ponderously slow
open ocean
like jarlsberg- holes in it,
fall through on ship
into dark
place,

where the men have pitched
forks. and the soul sings
ABBA night to night-ish day.

that is where my ship has gone.
mast spake "you there, cat,
your stomach flaps for birds decay"
"yes" purrs cat. she preens,
feathers gilded grey;
blood oscillates to
swells harmony.

she, of the tacked on,
keeps on tacking on,
onto vile things with
names like "Stew" and
"Fred". Cat, though,
smiles to steal the
out-turned grin,

firelight plays upon
ocean face,
cat looks at me.
my penis holds my hand

catshipgrin

she has a stupid grin.
a grin the cat would like to
call its own.

for ships have no place in
the middle of the
desert; or dessert
but in the waters hands
a ship may be at peace.

with a cat on its deck
the ship may squeal and
fall into a little squall.
and the ocean may speak
(to the mast) of clouds it
use to know, and rain-storms
it once loved

but by the fireside her stupid
grin sits there; smoking,
playing devil to my cock


rising out from misty isle
and heading into desert stretch.

in full bloom

silence offends us,
bloom with the outthrust
of a catapult-
we speak the stone
of broken heart:

flowers gain a stony
gleam.

she

she likes to get hurt when she loves.
pulls apart the apron strings tying
her to decency,
and naked will decay before his moral
eyes.

seeing visions of angels and apple trees
she will climb the stairs like a
veteran, to find the roof more spacious
than she would have it,
and would go back down
into a smoky room and tell
all the sailors that she is pretty.

her cherub cheeks would flare. and they,
those pretty thieves, would take her
to their beds and love her just enough
for all the pain beside;

her fathers, felt once more.

on the nature of things: beneath no earth

let words reach down the throat of dawn
and write the sunrise.

the river dreams of water,
i realize i am incomplete.
...


truly,
as being; in delicate
pose of flower

poser, ivory vase
and circles inlaid
on dead coffee table

i am circled, date
and pen as one
flowing downstream
into stony hands

vascular, noteworthy,
brown eyes floating
and curled into
the plenty--
light arc, rainbow pleasure
drifting, sifting;
water slips through fingers
caught between
river and the air.

i falter then, between
substance,
as ash returned to flame,
time wears on, slowly; memory
aflame.
watch:


subdued,
eyes warn eyes
of death.
floating on a smile now,
free to dream, yellow sweater
dirty hands
and muddy bath
child swims the dream,
no gravity,
no earth beneath the
sky, freedom:

a kiss between each breath.

*
and solitude finds its place
in the thoughts of every star,
i sleep,
i sleep,
and dream my life once more
as pulse returns to pulse
and flowers
are replaced.

the cat and the bird

my cat has been naughty,
has killed another bird

feathers lie strewn like
little dresses on the bedroom
floor,

i slide the desiccated body
into the dustpan, it rolls
over somewhat and small black
pin-prick eyes stare into me.
they are lifeless and
heartbreaking.

mirrored, I can see myself, floating
on that perfect black
dropped into a bin;
forgotten.


the cat wants food,
the bird is dead.

into cotton dream

i lie beside your grave--
to show them that i have feelings;
for the eclipse of rebirth

and because by the numbers
on the wall are yellow teeth
connected to smaller men

sand-papered down.
suits drift down the
sullen streets- night-shaded-
dim light looming over
prairie asphalt black
like cold water.

tentacles reach out from the
sky, aqua-chalets form
inside clouds and there, by the
stranded moon, is a spaceship
hurtling into
its metallic lover.

and i lie.
suck my thumb,
find myself a cotton
sheet and fall into
a cotton dream.

the 24th (or 25th) of July, 2008

I wish time would clock forward
so i could go to the cinema
and watch the new X-files
film,

What becomes of Fox, and
little miss Scully I do
so wonder...

Alas! Time is a station
always getting further
away.