blue january

The rules of the sun

The torture would be worse if i kissed you
then came back as you
and we did not dance.

A city called poem

Our mongrel hearts are born inside the sun
yet the pleasures of solitude are greater

i engulf ten leisures of life, in a bar
then think this, your attire enough to make me sane
then insane enough for your limbs, transforming

regardless of life or the prices of love & whiskey

i am these days as i work in an office
where the birds pour & pour

or near a Pluto named fire
my head glows redder than my dog’s tongue
since all religions are made by flesh
and the only one i see is yours.

I knew a man who worked hard

The waterfalls are maddening
only because i swim like a shark
& full inside the bones of old moonshine farmers
they’re the ones who really get it
fully full on their own fruits
slamming hell with laughter
begging it to come with each sip
then when the deep punch comes
embracing a lightening love
and knowing that the next batch needs to simmer

lest the roof comes down
and sings like a poem
fermenting angels and all.

Heat & sky

dreams are like dislocated freaks of day
even this coffee is made of sweat
and combats the blossom of morning.

walking home

my knuckles knock on the moon
i crack each bone, then wake

hearing them pop in the dusk, my face
is not my own, until
i get each bone to sing.

Felidae II

Last night my cat was sitting beside me
she looked ahead like all animals do
and linked our hands with her purr

the wind was heavy with news, although, nothing was not her gravity
there was nothing on
just a purr that could sacrifice all the gold scarabs and bastions of life

i turned to lassy
and knew it was life, exchanging with dream.

The morning news

The birds our hands
the recalcitrant street~ the rest
and where i know my laughter is real

is where it is lucky in your mouth
where only worlds
and our own versions of life
are born.


There is hubris in the grass
that only the living know
many have died inside one room, one day, one life, one book
and a curving arse, a curving street, a swaying year
that sends death up
tearing apart its cadaverean tears
like all rivers reversing
as they always must
made to be still
the roads pruning soil
with vulgar burps beyond life, and
all mistakes.

Chimeric red

We open this rib-cage mind
where cleaners torch lawyers, saints, and shop workers
& smile at the steam dividing in our guts
where speeding eyes inside a train are lusting
to see bones more careless than thought
i go back to this room
& listen to the neighbors slam each other across the stairs and horizon
and lock the door
and smell the scent of your heart
many years ago
inside a sweating moon
where gods open
and never sing alone.

Several seas of piano

We’ll never swim to the edge of Brighton
but we do
and each red beat of the winter sun
is no embrace

my suit misfits, as time divides in blue
your hair is slicker than my blood
blacker than black as we dive

there is no mars or earth
only the way we swim.


A scorpion stumbles near my face
then i ask if your coffee is ok.


There were hours when i believed the joker’s den
like a god machine made from birds
and all it took was a swearing fox
to say that my skin was fed, unlike her darting carcass
in the street
then my blood slowed down

as did hers, as she darted away, and made mockery

of my life swine hours

like a man made from molasses
only singing, showing love, or drinking books under the flowers of a polite moon

and then there is us

and the rose of a hammer inside a pulse
making a normal life
what life is

woes cast away

days cast away.

No hymns when I go, do a dance, a piss, that’ll do

The Thames rides high in the city’s blue wheel
and she says my basic mind is broke

& in the moving blue i am gone

i slap my one love on the back, gently, and we both think, or drink less
about the awful things that love does.

although, all is a strange uniting, and we despise these times
when we have been less disgraceful, where

we have not described the indigenous birds of one country
that are moored no longer

and the night is worth its ride, castrating each reason with flight
to not sell: the freshest cut mind: its only state: its only guest
eager inside our dreams of reality where babes milked by dunes,
growing giants from their anima palm

low nebulae of sea anklets, by the cooling of patience
by the stored morning of vittalic kin, usherette grasps
shattering spite, at the risk of all peaceful vibrations

in humour

are the risk of the wind, not flesh, but
today is Monday
and i miss you.

and this is the only scent here

where the roads connect to all amor fati, amor fati, Amor fati!

la chimère d’amour; where rhythms are shared by all animals,
unflexed in the skull by denizen skull: the populace melting

fat fucker awake with woe on the Northern line transforming
into my poem, or, my flesh if i do not work-out
and forget about you.

although, the best time to write
is when the city turns its head
and a poem falls out:

so passed the point of brinking-worlds, there are only elements
so no rapier can slice through dream like the scent of day,
and we scream in melodious waves of diving accident

which brings notions back of extending fire sighs so opaquely
happiness cherishes the chaotic mirror of booming children~

the figureless dance of the last disgrace, which has no pity
and is the travelling word for success against liberty

we are no longer life, or its blushing ripped condescension

only your shadow and mine are the freeing lush muscle of life,
where man has shattered space into the thousandless voice

of solitudinal stars in the semi-embraced, androgynous, and alight-
hemisphere of binary pleasure; jealous girls and boys drink smoke;
we the haphazard twin of darkness and light forget, willfully
as if destiny is a circular pleasurette, of both stomach and sky

by the watering mortars of the watchmen from Soho watching again
and to this city the agile mouth of a field is awake
where the sad winds entwine with the yeasts of the rabbit
the smallness of light balancing on your cheek, gargantuan
to everything through the hymns of a car choking, to spirit
two moments transmit all there is, by the third, death emigrates
or it does when we dress each other by the charm of time

i have no idea where this music begins, or perhaps DNA laughs too;
as do my fathers, your mothers, in the merging of reversing gods
the birthing of make-up, and the evening day is mobbed by innocence
purity is less magnetic than a sliver of fish, dead in a dog’s heart
even that now, même que maintenant, even this now
même ce maintenant, is a better howling blood of choice
where a little fatter and choicier, rage is the sonata of calmness

and much dusk where the glimmer is, the trashy drool of half
heartedness is your soft wolf walking in, the silk of your bating voice;
my only vice, and the point of all tantric conversation
the murals of our past are now the sculptures of changing grip,
like early and significant horses enduring the guilt of eating
all tribes in all ice and fire, the fastest cars cannot beat the tram,
the tram is an old bust marriage of constant grace

fundament, infallible, mercurial, wholesome in lie
there is no flea with enough backs to carry us all
not a poem in hell can survive without being saliva
too much porn and not enough road makes a dull car of us all;
but, there is only one liver waiting on the ground,
what is the perfect song to let it breathe? Tonight
you are my attire, and I am yours

we soak the ribbons with massacred blood, we say
to the absolute: no, I choose my partners carefully,
I am yours, you are mine, our habitual skin
blowing leviathans train in the wind
and chokes as we stroll releasing our hands upon its neck
but let ours fly together and apart, nothing holds the world;
the divine is wood, your translucent perfume, our body

The dogs have blown into darkness.

The moors create hybrids from themselves.

Wild garlic ferments in fields of skin

Texas leans into Vertigo’s kiss.

An ape is born smelling of you.

My sweat is your blue June

Armed by light.


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