Sunday, October 7, 2012

Hump in a Field

Hump in a Field

Fragile Hump that in a field fell.
Plays. Melancholy yet within a furred
lamentation spread. There he is
a wandering blossom rooted deep
in woven soil. How silent under hungry
mounds where they had laid acquired
of such attentive Hump. For a companion
that lacquered the burlap aisles, half
full of gentle kisses and crests
into airy arcs though sought he to calm
upon distant landscapes. He if we knew.
Our noses too reduced to sprouts
that are lit of a twist tie confessor. Even
kneaded with such easy glimpse, early
awe. Of which we will find ourselves
blessed. I am now a fuller space
with a whisker breadth empty,
dining at the compassion pan.
Hump open now. Hump from each side.
From each distance filled. Rooted.
And each of me can bear surprising wonder.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Erasure Head in the Blind Kangaroo Bucket

       Empty a cloud gather go. So numb the tongue
a channel plus opened. Edges within. An entry
       was must for the patient fervor. Who wants
as a grafted stack hampered at bleak dilettante
       phases in a waning harlequin chair. Beleaguer
while jarred an upsurge. Pumped to the cushion
       bleak cot fretted and mild. Of a perpetual state.
Who lacquered that oaken door shut. That the
       entire buzz of denoted hoards left to cling by
their uneasy guilt. Until rubber bounced upon
       the chiffon crevice, kept at no better effort as.
And only in undoing has flown out the noiseless
       erasures. Then with such the tamper hammer
man sociopath. The circuit closer to a roo sack.

The Lady in the Radiator

Friday, June 15, 2012

Ophelia the Willow Bowed

Led on a tawny velvet tuft. Laertes were there a young lad
while she what does she do up by a bit bowed the limp
she towered. Where led the winding crevices may still be
seen a gnarled brain skin under immaculate glass dome.

That the barley bent over her a lunging bulge. They unmet
of purer the ledges and rope slung from a truss. Played she
an enormous mask against the hated bourgeoisie. Yet she
had forget with each is seen from a willow bough a mist

religious. Led that most dark she feel alone. Feel herself
slipping. Should rend her desires into each of us proceeded.
Still spread that can bring us to peace. As of a blank slat
that float at for we too drifted past. Stained the long years

with her drowning. Led as when were a nocturnal bride.
She we mourn in murmurs behind the pulpit pages lit.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Hinged the Hearse Pot

Her husband is a cannonball
disguised with the pigeon
tealeaves he brought. It
unfold blank a troubadour
epidemic. We take off our
shoes, whereupon her man
scuttles to a window shade
with his Yorkshire prayer
booking via back hand.
The whole place lifted as
with heavy smoke and dark
shapes for warm faces to
make lump noises. Visitors
to turn pale pink, gruesome
little hedgehogs. To be bust
open at tobacco pouch seam.
They are chained to matches.
But in my face a light to look
of foreseen circumstances.
Her husband have a large stew
pot. She has in pieces of clingy
silk laid out on her backyard.

Lemon Lime Pickle

Better will ensue and of open spaces live through
   to estranged thresholds who by bunches uttered.

Clear they stand among such dresses as the needle
   work kept starved. Are trembling aesthete dances.

Could fashion a pillow pinch of rags. For what that
   the bunting might divine about such tender labors.

Among the solid things like beauty by the moment
   of hands closed on astonish thief in tiny fragments

of hectic morning. The percolator is purring. To be
   slung too, if stretched center between the brains

in disarray. Slough presumptions. Ambitious to be
   she, a mere delightful being of such complexity.

 *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

 *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

Under Hoshizaki

You’re there now, up against the subway grating
and the music breaks vulgar for which you were
turned happy. Little dumpling twinings. Slider
you’re a tight reach box on the sidewalk concrete.
You were not smoking a moment ago. To have with
imps you danced hacky sack lush midnight footbag,
become were the moon travel grunts glorious along
with assemblage prostheses, only after which sexy
moments established their evident hold. You are one
pleasurable curiosity, no dancer back but you come
shuddering a perfect chandelier cabriole foot carve.
Terribly the same things amusing, more preferable
now to make at just cardboard, not for dog sausage.
Sluice your little fingerling. I see cobwebs collecting.
It is warm down that face under ramps that blow
under Hoshizaki. We’re of both mythical reminding.
And what up did your trunk but with manage see.

Monday, February 20, 2012


Mean while awashed in the putty
and petty in pruitry, we labour
to stave isolate, in a way me as dandy
and here you tapping on the glass,
treading brine in the other jar. Don’t
you know me by now? What.
With no stitch of close, embryoed
via softshore float and stuffed
under a two-tin lid. Me, boy. Maybe
were it not for the jarring, we’d even be
umbilicalled. Yet we too are kept a feel
as pulp mash for the screening trough,
await on artisan’s whim, even
made of stern fibres to scrub along
the complex curvature of our inner housing,
but not likely to loosen the lid up top. Still,
flipped and fetal like the chance de maldoror
in a doppelgängered image suggested
by glass, rain aside and mouths wide.
You see we're nude, fluid move
in our amniotic drip. You might wish
to rush to crash and hoist me to your flowering 
dug. Instead, we flatten pliant heads
that may the better be full. And hope.

Sodden Frill and Furbelow

The milliner makes me a cute hat with pins and mesh,
a cornflower, three sprigs of baby’s breath, a round of blue ribbon,
a straw base, and a delicate mound of wheat chaff. I pull on
my springtime dress and invest more than adequate time
astooped at your address with my gloved knuckles bashing dents
into the surface of your solid core door, which you painted such a deep red
that the entry to your world might draw the eye of even the reasonably
cobbled stone passer-by. And that was I. Oh, would that you could
adjudicate without a deeper counsel, not only before Judge and choir,
but to fill the thirsty buttercup like dew in a meadow
while the mourning sun juts along a gurgled stream. Had I the skill,
I would build a raft of creambush tied with marsh grass and padded out
with a bed of wild blooms upon which I would lay with you. I’d release you
from my tetherhook, allow the tear to well and watch the water
carry you from view. You’d become naught but a memory to me, bittersweet,
and against which future suitors would be measured. And when the Savior
draws you back from the blackened mouth, and kisses you with new breath,
I’ll be waiting back at my home, in the parlour as the sun lowers outdoors,
warm fire in the hearth heating my tea, my punctilious needlework
spread open across my lap. And when you crawl back from the depths
and pull so soft on my brass knocker, I’ll answer your call.

But here I stand, clouds building into a darkened morning, an insufficient dress
flapping in the gusty wind, already late for the morning service, but begrudged
to stop my beating. Had I the wherewithal, I’d release your ruddy barrier
from its blanched irons and blast it back splintered into your foyer.
But the carriages are creaking past to retrieve parishioners. I’ve my head stooped
as if in prayer and it strikes me that cold rain drives down
like a volley of milliner pins dropped from atop a cloud.

Prayer Time

The muezzin is in the know

while I’m busy on the floor,
      fingers tracing tiles of dusted mosaic.

Across the market square, Sebastian sells arrows
      to the Huns, while mongrel whores

snap at scraps of greasy meat.
      On solid ground, one man

peddles the holy word, while above,
      another cries out to no avail.

From on high, the voice calls,
      pulls me from the fray to come pray

though I opt out. I trace
      another tile and smile while

far beyond the scope of my Elijahic vision
      Mohammed crouches on the rock

burbling admonitions to his lambs.
      I see Sebastian peddle away.

Chew a bit of mutton and wait
      for the service to end,

and about me all is silent
      as, upon the minaret, the figure rests.