certain poetry fade

Oh my god, who whaps on clocked meetings, who stomps with guesses, who looks under beaded frail to consider all the torment of rock sung peopling, who is near a gutter when we cry, who does a dopey thing with ribbing right along, who in the ways of serious inference treats a gas lane as in between the meat. Oh god the right check and bouncy thru the street light. Locks of treaty fester. Munching nicely in the news front creates the habit of known loose. Stopping close to next to nothing means nothing. The rat bastard that swung around, the sleek mumbling pushiness, the bubbly after reaching, the stern as crust becomes in rarity night: how much do we play the music on average over renounced trapdoor arrangement for listening to a just radio, or do we just report hard instant cash reserves to give the need inside? Dull pulse to pose for weather.

Verdant

Verdant adj. 1. green with vegetation or foliage 2. lacking experence or sophistication.

Relishing.

Moist melancholy drips off of

crushed blades.

Peeping flowers.

Hide and seek,

I see me.

Écrasé

The structural integrity of raspberries
Concerns me now
As you do not
Fragile is far from the word I’m looking for
Reluctant, I’ve washed them and
There is red everywhere, for it’s
July: starved for it
I cross the street, puckered by hope and rain
Two beautiful women, hair cropped
One carrying a mulatto child blond and dark on her hip
Ask me for two dollars
How very exact
And unmelting
Perhaps they are undercover
And seeing what kind of person will respond
To the cherries—Bing!—of their twin mouths
Perhaps they are hungry
In any case, they do not smile
And I am seduced
Into handing over a hard coin

The pigeons in Paris
Are so much more intelligent
Than our own
Here, at every corner, one sees the evidence
That the structural integrity of pigeons is
Not that much greater than that of raspberries
How strange to see that spatter
On the road (they named the ruby after it)
In Paris they pitter-patter back
From the brink of non-integrity
Unexpectedly, as the néant yawns
As though my mental shooing has somehow
Pinged on a bird wave of thought
My friend says she has painted a room
The colour of berries, strained
In the heat my dreams are not rooms
But fruit not yet crushed
Not you

affairs of state

i am trying this out
walking in the door
looking at the walls

there are more than
four walls there are
more than 12 mirrors

the crows are cawing
outside my window
one of many windows

in this hello kitty uni
verse hello morning hello
mixmasters hello errors

hello let us imperfect
the bland perfections
of the late great state

one more revolution

Fanflower foot soldiers turn
their backs, lean
purple into sun.
Bearded beggarticks follow,
yellow
stars at attention
over green lace
afterthoughts waiting for sun
to return
salutes when
he passes on
one more revolution.
Generals stand in place,
spin armies,
take anonymous
faces circling as
progress.

Burial Song

seasons gape
blossoms
ripens
for the kill
each poison
exquisite
infects
the holy
the hallelujah
the rapture
an inch
of a thick harvest
and blood music
that consumes all
in dust
and regret
and folly
coagulates flesh
before it falls
for the burial song
sutured love
with the cynic desire
when mad friendship
had ended.

Billy Jno Hope