back

Back at it, it seems, like a bunny to a junkie. 

After something of a sabbatical the pens back to paper for better or for worse.

A few poems, take it slow.

Beating Hearts in Thickets Untouched

I am in love with summer. Some more pikcha's!

Tiny Records

For snapshots, chaste souls rest assured.

For her

Celandine

“Sometimes I like to hand feed fish to the alligator, it makes life feel insignificant.”

- Signora Corvus

Deadbolt eyes of diamond spy us climbing arduously, vines of the dead.

Watch from afar through the cracks in your palms as
Venus becomes just one of nine harlots in their evocable orbits
and
with tridents of metaphor penetrate
our indolent reflections as they lazily genuflect in
cloud cuckoo lands quadrillion pools of molten lava.

Surprise will breath on the bride of Pleiades
in ghost notes
cited in cliff notes
despite her wax red lips turn tricks in the tidy tips
every lunar and solar eclipse.

A whip---north, south, and frantic,
as asteroid belts squirm between the cleavage of her toes.
Dutch guts are dealt as snap dragons in Stetsons and sap-gloves
tighten the pikes on my bible belt with a zealous reckless abandon.

Just wait until she plants a nice frigid gun-powdered kiss
on the frailty of your bloodstream and leaves hurriedly
in the middle of the night without her clothes.

Crystal skulls, mouth breathers, and marigolds,
cherry moles, cultures built around the automobile and mystery religions...

I gamble heedlessly with your future.

I arabesque in the baby blue industriousness of your moral virtue
and revive reapers so they may r e p o the cruelty of your affection.

Darling there will always be room for you, to breathe the breath of the deadweight.

Anhedonia # 15

I owe my consciousness to this pane of glass.
I share a heartbeat with scythes of ice and dance wildly without movement.

Your Life is Our Fiction

Been taking a lot of impromptu photo's lately,
I suppose capturing the world with a camera
is not all that different from capturing it using words and meter.
I submit to you a few tiny records of my recent travels...

I Flirt with Silence in the Pillowy Ache of Ice Water

A howl, a strum, you and I and naps in lantana.

Silver headstones in mans decline.
In the gait of the dandelions ween, making fists with her toes in tire-tracks of mud,
the clumps oil drunk and balding blades of emerald's fray.

She took baby steps,
eclipsed in the midst of a marvelous dream as one more somnambulist against the world.

She simpered heavens as if god himself had a vested interest in her existence and she could care less about it.

Her heart pumped jet fuel through brand new veins,
her extremities bucked like a doe's full of sex skewed by streams of television