artaud technique in orwellian thematics, stylized with considerations of miller

sweat with words, dance with verbs and sit on the elegant contours
of thought, because what we spoke was not some ancient gybed rot
but gypsy coronation launched by violin sorrows and filled with
elegant tomorrows.

left our guile at the roadside
when the apocalypse kept coming
and left our smiles in the pictures
where we faked our styles with
understanding guile.

AND THEY SPOKE WITH A SHIVER,
MY ARROWS FULL IN THE QUIVER
SAID LISTEN CLOSE, LISTEN CLOSE,
and they all surrendered.

tomorrow is a process
of what we keep inside
today is the unraveling
of the symbols of outside
and when you caught the bus
you felt with your black suitcase
what you knew to be inside,
a pack of gum and some water pistols,
a balloon inflated and tied to thistles
interlacing with the veins of your left wrist.

You bought out their process
with your thoughts of wine
and drank deeply from the signs
the sirens left upon the rigging line
and built a blooming staircase with
nothing but a few windy leaves left
upon the sky.

Angelic dispensation of certain articulations,
LET NO ONE DEFINE THE "I"

love,
you wrapped your blooming peonies
around my wooden wrist like a heat
of breath upon my skin, and left
me standing here with flowers from
the articulate earth.

I always come back.

You can count on that.

Deliver up an interruption with wild eyes
smoking like summer suns, and pick up a book
evolving with the flower children smoking
in forested glenns and fresh meadows,
deliver up a diversion with dregs of
writing, write me up inside your library,
write them up and call them contrary to that
which you know is a fact.

it was a near death experience

red working grownup tossed with tables beneath lanterns shown up
to cross the angles of where we intersect in geometric development.
Picasso showed up to teach us humanity on a canvas while the Nazis
throw up their hands like counterparts of weapons into the flames
where they burned books, the same flames that overtook their lives.

And angel, all grown up, and divine with catacomb mind, and demons
blown up with ancient holes for darkened eyes. Theology broke up
with love affairs long before we had drank our wine, and tell me
will you grow up and become masterfully inclined?

Because Guernica is slowing up, pictured in relief across the borders
where the winds caress the disease of nationality, where we bend our
spoons on prison bars and break up sweet releases of shadows, the darkened
worn out depletion they call getting ahead while going beneath.

Water is poisoned with someone's hiccups,
darkened clouds burgeon beneath flags shored up
to make it seem like the country allied with belief.

I am not a messanger, I am not what showed up,
I am wordly worn out with a kingdom torn out
of tissue patchwork strengthened with iron framework,
I am darkly light out and burning holes in ancient
ceremonies with sunlight's soft relief.

You are defined by grown-ups, you who would leave
to dark cities, you who believe in light as allied
with belief. Break chains with plastic knives and
steal links to casual times in the boardgame of
some earthen memory.

And how language blows up, grows out of what showed up,
is undiminished by the writer or the reader, but drinks
from slight rivers returning our wellspring in incrimental
dribbles down our cheeks, well some call it crying and some
think they're dying, but life is beginning with what rustles
from beneath the frightening scrape of decaying leaves
for beneath the morass lies sprouts of answers, lies the soft
scrubbing of willow bones placing polyp leaves in the skies
conspiracy, in the truth of motive, in the delivered show
where the honor remained strong even among the worst of thieves.

Candles blow out simple light now, but billowing sheets cast
their vespers across the cathedral of the sky. Ancient memories
of childhood break out, and now we seem to know what we believe.

traintrack hopscotch, ancient hide and seek

watch the rust coral train roll in,
they got my number a long time ago
only they don't know what it could mean
without me standing here beneath the precious
stars rolling in behind the cloud's water
stretched thin like gingham over the hips
of the luscious grin of night turned sober
when you walked in, you in your chiffon
dress made with ginger leaves and spicy
sin, all drawn out like a car accident
that you would win.

And we turn to faces we know as petals
kept in scrapbooks thrown in the nettles,
which they make soup from and boy, is it
ever thin, this rationing of the soul
in oil drums splattered with rainbow residue
and all our engines waiting to begin,
how we travel in days left beside the station's
barb wire fences electrified from within
their tensile strength wound with rapture
of control's decadent and solitary sin,
the apportioning of what goes outside
and what stays locked away and in.

but you escaped through boxcar floorboards
to be with dandelions spreading their ashes
in seeds like eyelashes across the veldt
of blue that burgeons with the iris of eyes
fading with laughter and leaping after
traces of the sunlight hidden behind the
mountains ashtray building skyscraper
sillouetes across this disaster, the
ever-loving structure of Babel's hereafter
when armies raise their cries.

My dedication is not to manipulation
and my dedication is not to inquisition
and my dedication is learning to pledge
itself to certain honest dispositions.

And my confession takes place in silence
with my lips moving in mutters that could
be construed as the curses of a mother
tangled with the wires of control.

The dandelion bursts like a star across
your face blowing winds you never conjured,
and feel intent in manifold angelic answers
filling the cathedral of your ribs
with the questions you ask after you die.

Seems like tarot flicked across your summer
the wings of some virginal mansion set
upon the sky, you who came from traintracks
traveling through Dachau, who came in
breaths stammering like machine gun bullets
drowning out the dogs. You who stood up,
you have made up your bed in whispers falling
like rain from the sound of thunder, the
flash of lightning burnt into your cheek
like a sunset horizon, fast and filled
with streaks.

Drink your valleys, unfurl your grace with
conspiracy eyes and tell them why you hate
them, what they have done inside your eyes.
Tell them like a mountain, tell them
like a landslide, tell them like the sound
of a train going deep within.

when they found me i was skeletal with dreaming
engineered along the lines of what they were fearing
broken cornfields, ash of perfume
dark red night and golden love room.

when they found you you were like me
alive and beating but somewhat drowning
in the cornfields where the wetlands found me
drinking absinthe and softly frowning.

engines roaring through all gasoline
prices soaring for even libertines
and broken roses on their doorstep
meant nothing but the curse of mortality.

wishes come in shapes and sizes
beggars ride with cardboard matches
and pigs will fly when the world is turned
around thee, upside down and softly falling.

the zither player featuring no real zither player

And the silver bracelet dangled from the wrist like a limpid crescent crossing the powerlines of blood vessels, which coursed rivers of current through your very being like a power plant, illuminating your body and freeing you of the darkened ships of terror that wander like pirate ships through the blood, like viruses and bacterium.

When you bought the necklace you didn’t think of it as a gift, only as a mere token, but it became your wedding band to the spirit of light enveloping the very sun that shows us the moon in such replete detail as to make its presence felt within our lives on summer nights adorned with the gems of fireflies.

Now you wear the necklace as a bracelet and it fashions you from silver into gold, sweet queen of the Mississippi who captained riverboats and threw drunken thugs into the paddlewheel, you were so dead on.

Now you carry a six-shooter under your belt and heft its weight when you walk down the block, all that murderous power pressed into your hip like some kind of wicked daydream that has shown you the edge of murder without actually being there, that has shown you how death is love as well as life, the sad qualification of those of us who know too much about the way concealment works and the way that things are misinterpreted by people who do not know us very well. They thought I had a pistol, I only had a squirt gun.

And you protected me, laid down covering fire with sweet supple kisses across my brow that would make angels sing themselves into existence, those bejeweled creatures that always show up when we need them because they understand, those of us who have become too large for our respective roles, my angel.

In the South it was really hot. In the South they shot people for sport and called them accidents. Well we were wise and congradulated good shots but in our hearts reviled them, my little Southern queen from the last of the liberals, from the last of the lovers.

And eloquent drawings bespoke our cartoonish natures, the postures we adopted with cigarettes and smoking views that made other people cough, the kind of ideologies that you spit out were you ever to look down the barrel of a gun.

Tell me your work now, tell me what it is that you truly do when you are relaxing and doodling upon piles of paper the color of some monochrome sunset, the color that we dreamed into eternity with the pale vespers of our mind’s forfeiture, our dreams that became memories, our desires that became memories, and our memories that became us.

the purple washes over the delicate petals of flowers with permanance of light
she answers me with clipped meanings carrying the weight of an oak tree
and I see light in the leaves because she let me read her fortune,
she let me peer into her like a golden urn and to her glory there were not ashes
inside but a room for two draped in red and couches of glowing velvet.

she lifted the net.
now all i see is open water skirting in fanned blades of wake for flying fish,
all i see is wide ocean swimming towards us, depths unconcealed though they are beneath our gorgeous flight, where they shot at us before their weapons have jammed with seawater, where they threw stones before their arms are heavy from trying to keep afloat.

and dadelus says to build your own wings this time, for you are no icarus, that, and i know you like a kindergarden friend painting circles with an orange brush on cheap art paper with a smile on his face, saying it is the sun, it is the sun.

drink languid earth from the grounds of coffee and set your wings to the arch of the sky, become who you were born to be, leave all this fettered mess behind. were they so great to you truely? What have they done to your music, to your song, when you sang in the sandy prison yard, did they not stone you too?

i have their marks upon me, but they are only marks and not secrets or destinies. make it so that they don't understand you when you guide the arrow into their hearts, because that will make it easier than explaining. That will make it easier to leave, my love, and that is what we are all set on doing with our lives,

making it easy to leave.

the raven's call matched our fall with a precision instrument
the color of a feather casted down on the sidewalk in a refutation
of our fates and an acceptance of our destinies.

You mean you still don't know?

We were born for each other on this pale blue world
that revolves like a supple dewdrop corkscrew-wise
around a glowing vine that we know as the sun's
gravity, all fire and light and sight in the dim void
of spacious emptiness.

and we drank our wine from oak cups until our wooden
mouths were stained with the blush of blood's slash
which made us more than human, made us intoxicated
with the gentle oceans of liquour pulling at us
as if we were boats in the tides.

engines speak no more, they are buried beneath the earth
in coffins made for machines and the dark night of yesteryear
has been absolved in the starlight of the new moon,
invisible lest you be an astronomer or a astrologer,
concerned with pulls of tidal current and darkened
spheres influencing our watery lives with the touch
of gravity's love.

Do not betray me any further. You only betray yourselves.

I came here to instruct you about the truth of beauty,
I came here to be true and beautiful with you
and you lock me away for safe-keeping like a rotting
peach, thinking that I may be fragrant and yet ever
delicious upon my return. Well I will tell you
that I hate your acts but I do not hate you,
for you may be foolish with wine and wise with money
but you are neither when it comes to me.

and in vespers of twilight we raise our penitent heads
to the celebration of our lives that lost its cliches
and in the tides of revenge we refuse what isn't ours,
namely a hatred longing for an artificial completion
that is never obtained, but burns down what is you
in flames bedecked with flames.

remember to wake
remember,
remember my friends
who you were when you were sober
remember who you were when you
were older
remember who you were when you
walked down the street in those cute boots
to deliver a message to the landlord saying
that you didnt feel like paying rent this month
because his services had been less than adequate
and remember who you were
when you stood up to your father
and remember who you were
when you bathed yourself in laughter
and remember you were and you will
become who you are supposed to be
mainly a memory with all this secret history
mainly a melody with all this open euphony
mainly a medley of all the sweetened symphonies
mainly a memory, mainly a symphony.

wartime love letter

and the accordian played with revelry during the despairing war
where children ate shoe leather and dead soldiers still sent letters
post-dated to their loves that had endlessly wintered with the nocture
of gunfire and guerilla reprisals. next, the girl on stage had an astonishing
youth you only find in the fraily beautiful, the kind of youth that reminded
one of sparrow bones, it was so light and fragile. she could have been a mother,
but for us her voice was virginal, trilling like a master violin and lulling us
into somnolence in front of our whiskey glasses that we forgot how to drink during
her song.

they broke into the temple and stole all the candlesticks, they painted swastikas
on top of our altars and forced us to use their own magic, the vile disgusting blackness of dark hearts labors, locked in dead literature like a starving parakeet, pecking at the paint on the bars with a hook beak. and our temples remained open all through the murders, the war brought murders and the war brought famine, we were lucky if we were dead.

but the girl sang, frail Europa locked like a nightengale in the foilage, chirping raw swollen melodies of loss like a desperate mother bird looking for her eaten young.

nobody applauded, we who's backs had been worked in and whos breath labored under the strain of poor cigarettes, we who danced yesterday but cried today at the sad fact that there is no real description of loss or warding it off, that it comes upon you in the form of a frail innocent deer trying to rouse feelings of beauty and diminishes only when you diminish in its stead, like a candle blowing out its own light.

the war continues, the unspoken war and the televised war, which are two different wars.

tomorrow night they will have a jazz band filled with negroes who barely escaped New Orleans with their lives, who found spare solace in the breasts of kind brothers that took them into their houses. there are few of them left, both true brothers and true musicians.

there are few of us left. you know this isn't a lie.

i still have crayon pictures from the days when children played boardgames in the hallways, when adults still seemed kind and guileless, when porches were still being built on houses, when every house had a bookcase. Are they lies or are they what you call history? Are we the history of defeat, of courage, of bravery, or of the common heroism that locks itself in the soul like a chain that cannot be broken, the disperate element of individuality that stands up for individuality, and the breaking of molds for the sake of liberty sometimes, sometimes for the sake of survival.

I could love you, but you could never love me. Love exists only when it is first. And I would be second to you. I know this because you have got to put yourself first, above all and else. And that is the way it is. That is the way it has been for awhile, the way of the world's machines building themselves in our selfishness like invading armies destroying the sequence of the night's silence with gunpowder, occupations, and murder rooms where they torture you and your family because you were not well liked in your town.

I hope you are well liked.

message from dadelus

You, tired dogs, breaking boughs with the Morning Star,
Was there not clock-time that caught you working upon
The speckled branches of your living dreams? How does
Your slavery compare to your fantasy, do you indeed relive
Work year after year, and call relatives in hell to tell them
About what you have been doing with pride and fastidious
Details interlaced with the quick lies of apothecaries promising
Solace, but delivering poison.

There is no doubt about where you are. Do not deceive others
With your flecked little currents of words which deliver pale
Messages in the form of beauty’s illusion, made for decay and
Sealed into appearances. We are not appearances, we are existences,
Piled upon experience and set to motion like clockwork in an
Organic frame. Where we are is not our choice. Where we go is.

So be ever billowing with the splendor of traveling wings, carrying
Light song and unintelligible melodies. For like your circumstances,
You have fallen, but now you know the difference between it and flight.
Curtail your earthen attachments and dwindle to frail sky with the opening
Of the window you kept locked through the winter for fear that the wind
Would catch your wings. You are free now, there in your prison, you are
Liberated in your hell, so become like your being and fly, fly up towards
The drafts of the North that promise so much more flight, be ever going
With the sweet lift of strawberry winds and vanilla zephyrs. Do not be
Afraid, fear will stone you with regret.

The dead are new and you are quiet, listless in your grave
Where the flowers conspire to pull out your wires and
Place you gently into grace.

Only trust the Gypsy boys who carry their instruments
In cases slapped with stickers of where they’ve been,
The boys who are quiet but for their musical talents,
Who are quiet with even their hands.

And the engines that are pulling you down have
Always been around, they’re named after civilizations
That have been buried by their own mechanics.

Green lights are golden in the winter windowpane,
We laugh at Christmas like we sob at Easter,
Well come on cherished friends, we’ll meet each other
In the end when we fight and fly, we’ll fight and fly
Beside each other now, we’ll break these ankle chains
They’ve fastened to gravestones. It’s time we’ve began

To dance, to sing, to bring bird song into the funeral
Homes where the dead can’t cry because they sell
Coffins and ash urns for poor mannequins molded in
Waxen articulations the color of slaveships. And let
Us laugh and cry, and touch our tongues to the ice cream
Of the sky because time is a fake now that you’re awake
Because you saw the lake where the ancients drank their
Strength from, you’ve loved and been lightly free of gold.

Only trust the Gypsy girls who’s skirts are like patchwork
Quilts unfurled in the wind to dedicate sovereignty to a
Nation of color, a nation sewed together with pulsating
Fingers reaching across the soft fabrics of ourselves.

And drink up, my gentle friend, tonight we’ll die and
Tomorrow we’ll be born again, forgetting about it all.

no stranger to this, and then some slight return

The language of flowers glows with light
Around the cradled hands of mysterious women
Sowing petals of thought with green thumbs
Wrapped around fuzzy vines glistening with
Diamond drops of dew, intertwining their arms
To the center of the Earth with coded demarcations.

And the engine of depravity reaps dead petals,
Its gears gorge upon decay but choke and have
To be redesigned every time a machine part breaks.

This is the reality of gardening, love tenderly
Escorts petals into brilliant swatches of paint
Played out towards the sky while the dull mechanics
Of corporate farmers mangle utility plants until
Profit is lost, until their engines rust with oil flakes
And water decomposes even the most extensively
Engineered part, like a frail ally burning the teeth
Of gears in a combine.

My lady curls with unfurling magnolias and has
Wrapped a bouquet of forget-me-nots around
Where my crown used to lie, once heavy and sullen
With dead metal. Garlands are more sensible
For summer, she told me, crowns are endless winter
Locked in sharp perfume.

And the snakes will lie among the rosebushes,
Searching out immortality amid confused
Significations, because after all
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose;
Few people understand that, and snakes
Certainly don’t understand anything which
Is why one lived in a tree in the Garden of Eden,
Only a confused scaly wraith would live where
Branches blend fruit into quiet mouths awed
With the power of taste, eyes awed with pulsating
Flowers blooming and billowing in the sharp
Sunlight that tells us about colors,
While snakes, they know no color beyond
Vibration, much like certain scientists.

And the eloquent gardens speak in languages
You can’t count on your ear to hear, my lady
She whispers names into my hair like a bird
Tying bows of peonies into the tangled weave
Of my feral mane.

rhyme and room, dime perfume

Answer me in solemn dream
the color of a loner's coat
and I will question you
as to why life grew rude
in the hills above the
castle's moat.

we seem to try against
what is heavy, and fail
sometimes like Southern
levies, hurricaned across
the nation in a secret
car this side of maybe.

and answer me with bright
perfume my question on
the emotional dimensions
of a teak-stained room,
is it nostalgic, artful,
or prolific? Are it's
dimensions sequenced in
the abstracti0ns of
numerical alphabets, or
do we get to choose?

With cunning eye, you
begin to lie and I catch
you at every truth, saying
that the world is fire
and so is desire, well
only if you are paying
for the proof.

cadence of my desires,
whisked like patchwork leaves
through the eddying alleys
and torn by sharp footsteps
leaning on the walls of
the Everystore; it takes
money to lose money.

collage the nighttime
like summer's end just
going in frail directions
the colors of autumn, golden
with auburn embroidery fringing
the edges of sullen trees.

we've learned our lessons here,
our lessons we kept bare, our
teachings we tried to share
but for the idiot noise of
radio mouths manufacturing
consentual contracts between
prostitute and businessman.

Do not be fooled by looks,
feel into things with a heart's
leaning the way you fell into
your first kiss with your
second girl, it was like falling
and being caught at the last
minute. this is how you feel
across the world, this is
how you desire to dream in
autumn's ribbons unfurled
like dusky eyes closing in
sensual agreement, a lazy
sex brought with time and
essence, these patchwork
memories pasted across the
plaster, these delicate
moments kept and lost like
fluttering ribbons of contextual
newspaper clippings, enveloping
the logos of Everystore.

bella nocturne

We drink from gilded roses, claimed to be famous
if only in order to get into the fancy restaurant.
After all, we are alive and cognizant of our golden
flowers as they bloom over the events of our experience,
rustling in the raindrops and illuminating the sky
with the reflection of some holy sun.

They serve us bread and wine, and we are grateful,
you smile and flit your hair from out of your eyes
and I lean my head in close to whisper something
imaginative about nightengales, how they signify
the coming of a storm or the beginning of good luck
or both, flitting across the horizon at dusk.

You are so kind, I say, to listen to me talk like
this, I think anybody else would lock me up, because
they have locked me up, and you frown but with
a knowing understanding called empathy that is
rarer these days than gilded gems, rarer than
cheap oil, almost a fossil of life itself.
Have some more wine, you say, and relax.

There is no need for a dinner, the tablecloth
is a perfect landscape of ornate crystalline glasses
refracting emerald light, and the wine bottle slushes
like a conch filled with seawater, lulling with
its crenellated melody. We toast and laugh.

But there is darkness outside in the streets,
the man in rags muttering to himself about poverty,
the war, the endless chicanery that passes for political
life, and with his hand throws the last vestiges
of metallic language into the gutter. It is as if
he destroyed the Tower of Babel when the change
fell in chrome clinks down the storm drain,
it is as if he gave up for all of us. The police
arrest him for an infraction off the books, haul
him towards the prison on long lines of false wires
that speak in clipped copper enunciation about the
virtues of codified and false legality. We saw it
through the window, but did not know his name.
Who would have thought to ask?

The dinner comes, eloquent with smells, roast veal
and lamb replete with forested salads collaged in
hunter green and crayon yellow. We lift our glasses
gently, with terror in our eyes, clink, and gorge.
Somehow the food doesn't taste like its looks,
the halibut is pale flavor and the veal tastes like
old cheese. There is nobody outside the window,
just cars moving out of the way of the restaurant,
pulling thoughtless animals of instinct in their
driver's seats, pulling the ever loving human
resources towards storage facilities, supermarkets,
and temples of commerce. We eat in silence, we are
silence, the arrested man stole our language, or
did we steal his?

What wintered nights billow in cowardly speech,
what summered days deflate in brave silence,
where we dare to claim intelligence in a restaurant
that doesn't feed the destitute, where we dare
to claim empathy in a city where no one speaks,
not really,

no one really speaks.

Did you hear me through the clouded veil of the seraphim?
I cried your name like it was the last word I knew,
spoken with thunder. You kneeled beside the path,
reverant, but what were you thinking? That earthly
love lasts, that the night is strewn with the garbage
of the day but for our divine interpretations? Some of
us are not attuned to the spirit, we break before it
like toys beneath a boot, we crumble in our prayer
like sand cliffs before the ever-storming orders.
Others are ever embued with longing, but you, you
were made to be filled with a wealth of strength,
the propriety of past golden sufferings and the acknowledgement
of darkness amid billowing starlight. You have not
been made for easy love, yours is a complexity beyond the scope
of mortals and because of this you will find another angel,
a mad person obsessed with the power of the spirit to disrupt
fettered veilings and to break through the walls of death's
castle, plundering treasures made for the dead.
And the dead will rise, make no mistake of optimism,
the ever anxious and fearful dead will raise their tattered
beings upon the balconies of the materially innundated,
they will drink from goblets instead of masoleum gutters.

But do not come off too strong for like Samson you will be
required to test in feats of strength against columnar machineries
instilled in mechanic labyrinths that have lost better than you.
Be listless with the agony of divine love, but do not push its
weight upon the weak for they will push themselves upon you in
groteque displays of death's affirmation, the transformative
proclamation that makes a mass, the television of the spirit.

And be ever kind with frail sweet life
like a candle flame licks the sugared air
from which it melts, drink volumes of oxygen
with the lungs of the mind and feed plants
with carbon dioxide words until gardening
becomes your tender vocation; difficult
yes but with many rewards.

These are the orders of some pale spirit,
the decisions of unannointed lords who for
centuries have deciphered kingdoms among
the false hierarchies of idiot man,
who for millenia have witnessed
the waste of life's instrument
in the scrapheaps of civilizations,
wasted by men that cultivate a hatred
so deep that they depart into it as if they
consumed themselves, these men for who insanity
is too pleasant of a term, these men who
do not age but who were never young,
just burnt up with rage like an idiot kid
storming over an unimportant toy.

Do not go with gentleness,
do not stay with strength,
you must become you and
be free of obligation to
those who would not have you.
Be ever free in love,
my sweet angel, and
drink from the streams
which taste of plum wine,
be ever going with the
quick flow of gentle birds.

anonymus love letter

You are carried forward by a wave of ancient blood
buried in the labyrinths known as vessels and related
to the practice of love. You are brought forward
out of the enshrouding mists, you dangle your pale foot
over the edge of any bridge.

Bring me your wine, we'll drink upon the hill
bring me your wine, I'm sick of little pills.

All of your caution is transposed upon your face
all of your caution is the cause of your disgrace.

Burst through the orbed amber whorls of antiquities
fallow words, speak in old maths that create our
lives with verbs.

Hunger of love, as fine as any state,
hunger for life, they've tried to take your plate.

Rely on your bloodlines drawn with buttressed grace,
rely on your sight when you judge a stranger's face.

We are the ones, restless with wings of fog who
drink from sunlight's rim filled with fate,
we are the ones who unlock the garden's gate.

So where ever you are, remember that ever creature
has a fear, whoever you are, your blood is filled with tears.
whoever you are, you'll win with a harmonized sphere of
pulsating light they call the mind, whoever you are,
the stars have filled you with the glory of the year.

fond memories

We've sunk all our armor, and walk light and free upon the street. The florist waves to us with a cache of magnolias in the crook of her arm, and we sense the beauty of this over any other place.

But there are people scowling, at us and at the world, their are people who are still breaking down heart doors and shoving trash into the sacred room.

We have become has fine as any friend to the mysteries that haunt you until the end.

We searched the annals of the subconscious for reminescence in retrospect, then we grew cautious when memories poured in like thick snakeskins.

All the overtures are left replete beside our beds, all the time in the world marked centuries with our golden beads, and you were the one restless to use his key, you were the one who wanted to be free.

Leave them their illusions, they need them sometimes to dream about better worlds parallel to the lands of the dead and damned, where when you go walking in the woods, you won't be seen again; where when you do what you should, you're only a little better off than dead.

She is the one to tuck our light inside our breasts, she is the one who crushes nightmares like insects with the swirling hem of her velvet dress.

All that we win is garnished in the end
by the ancient process that gilds love
above our sins, and it was a tree that
married us to the Earth, and it was a flower
that showed us the beauty of the dirt.

All this old armor is breaking with rust
in the summer reeds, beneath the archaic
watchtower replete as a vision of belief
in aesthetic technologies beneath the modern
illusions, all these devices that are built
upon prior ruins.

And our fates conspired to tear at our heart
strings with the storms of the Arctic,
we merely knitted blankets with strands of
wool because we thought sheep to be cautious
instead of led to bleed. But now our fates
have fragmented from the gods of our destinies
and we have no need to be cautious when discussing
life's transient mysteries.

Drink this perfume, it fills the violet room
drink in this scent of magnolias and wash your
hands in blessed rivers while your clothes
tangle with a branch, for nature is intelligent
with the desires of our past, and nature is
benevolent when we come to her at last.

Be the disease that crumples cold old men,
be the iron breeze that cuts through the stolen den.

Remember our lessons in camping any place,
with our tin can stove and nettle soup
that nourished us by developing heat from within.
Follow the tower, the pinion of the Earth,
it reaches to starlight and humbles itself
in dirt. It reaches to starlight, like your
eyes upon the night, it reaches to starlight
when the rest are using kites.

Bring your prison symphony to the broken
crescent of a harboured shore, and bring
your tormented heart strings to the pity
of a kind-hearted whore. Bring all your
things and throw them to the fire,
burn all the wings built from car tires
and piston oil, they were built by someone
else in order for your hearts to spoil
with disbelief at peculiar things wrought
by divine machines, what you've been taught
is merely someone else's dream.

You who are aflame with wilderness,
did not the city once haunt you
with its utopian scepter used to mark
false distinctions between the human
and the civilized?

We are wonders where we are,
no matter what architecture only some
buildings are marvels and others can barely
stand the guests inside.

Do not go gently into the Ides, for
many a lover perishes his flame in offering
it to a bearer who cannot keep it alive.
And that is where the darkness comes from,
not from hand held stars and their mere
shadows, but from the failure to grip
heat like a gauntlet, these naive
couplings who treat life gingerly like
a small canary.

Be not a coward in the face of parting,
for you have already just gone and
what is before you stands like an
enlightened city; glowing with
cognizance, recognition, and the greater
glory of Love.

thematic variations on the old cliche: love, not war

And war shall have no shelter in
the mirrored hallways of the sublime spirit,
nor shall war's dragon enter our palace
doors, for the sun extinguishes wickedness
like a sword of rays, and war shall
be no more.

Love shall have dominion over our pale house
like tender truth drinks in the songs
of solemn spurned loners and blossoms
the feathers of lips into brilliant flight,
aerobatics of sweetness in a
light burnt sky between our ghost shapes
and sweeping Immelmans with the
rose blown wind that dances upon us
like gentle drifts of song.

Do not call war into love, my gentle
friends, for your sugar rots when you
do violence to our birdsong of emotion,
for your seed is scattered when you
throw up your hands to the death of
possibilities and the seasons in your
breast lock in endless winter
when you call down from your tower
wicked commands into the reflecting pond
where you billowed in your first kiss.