the world soul
a screaming, burning, rotting, raving, raging, fucking, growling, asylum
sediment the guts can't hold
makes me wretch
as the years bend this ridge poll
to the breaking point

a tuba plays, booming
it is raven girl and singing skulls
swaying hips
all breath and heat
attended by carnivory
little Fuzzy Mijmark
necrophilia's friend

while men love sheep and bone
in shady coves
and droves of groves

The street was deserted, Nothing moved
in its calm surround.
A steady drizzle trickling, the only sound
breaking silence, before a cloud burst unleashed
heaps of hail on the barren street,
streaming into free flowing rivulets
cleansing the path,
in diffused light of the stars.

They walk the city streets, invisible.
Everyone looks away, afraid to see.
Afraid that they may see themselves
They dig through garbage bins,
and everyone looks away in disgust.
To eat and strengthen the body
it is a must.
Invisible, street people live
for another day of the same.
No one even caring if they live or die,
no one knowing their name.
Watch your step carefully,
mind what you do and what is ahead.
You may invisible next, you know.
Or end up on the mean streets dead.

In pitch dark, I was glowing, being a night of awakening.
The silence was amusing, like a drop of dew,
arousing liquid thoughts, to break free of inhibitions,
to condense into a finite form, luminous and crystalline.
I let one free, which had a tinge of blue,
letting the bird in me soar, to explore
the freedom of solitude.

Sleep is not just closing of the eyes,
it's for looking within,
to rekindle the spirit of living.

a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein

he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms

dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded cocks and cash

Sitting in cold dark dirt
hands hurting in the cold
and black with digging
I asked myself was I too old
for this...

...Yet even as the question came
my thoughts turned to an answer,
of golden flowers
nodding in the warming sun,
with spikes of color
rising up to
waft a sweetness
gently on spring air,
and my woman's smile
as she's returning
home from work,
seeing her new garden
awakening from winter slumber...

Tiny hands found a place, for a leaf beside her feet,
there it stayed, pretty safe, where no one but she knew.

Those tiny hands grew large and large, but kept returning to the page,
it made her smile, to see it there, beaming at her face.

What was said in silent words, no one but they knew,
for being there is all that mattered, without being said.

A kiss is not an act of savagery,
so let your lips purse,
my darling,
and let them become tender
for me
in Stan Hywet's garden.

A kiss
is not an invitation to war,
so let your guard down
as we make our way through my hallway
and into my bed.

You gave me
the tenderest moment there
when you caressed my back.
The smallest things
can make me feel loved
even among the biggest things.

I wish I was as pretty as my shadow
I wish I was as easy to hide
I wish it was easy to tell the truth
and harder to tell that I lied.

Clouds over the skyscraped sky,
Their bodies emerge on the wind- O Gloria!
Shapes in stampede illusions, shapes
With hues of the October sun, sun
Which rips in leaps from wall to tower.

I attach myself to the fast clouds,
To the mythos of angelic, angelic,
As I attach myself to the autumnal wind, loud
Are the fugues of sound, proud
Geometries of steel and mirrored glare,
The sky, sky fills with fleeing dragons!