'wishing

Wishing you were
Here;

Wishing I was

There.

Tu

Purple and Yellow, Read

Sunrise flows over the slump of earth. Pressing sward becomes the vocable of the next sentence. Dreamy modern nights skew the season into interest and capaciousness. It all settles as theory, deeper than a lake.

A lake conveys the sense of towns floating into clouds. Those breezy loosestrife that purple the marshy way blur with past sunrise and may do so again. Statutes of goldenrod begin their intention to fade, simplicity is the canon. The rosy sun, gifted with maximum, engulfs the mending mood of this engagement. It is morning when you see this.

Sunrise flows into the mood of setting. The day begins a sentence with scruffy beat. Tuned cars and traveling folk dilate with deadline. A cup of coffee, never forgotten, slays the literal details of resistance, just as the marsh exudes another stratum of elegiac memory.

Now a sentence, slumped with poetry, inters a slighting seed. Each word, posited and passing, becomes the best love possible. Syllables gently nurse the options, and tremendous season sends a flake of cloud.

Little Mulberry

Higher, higher,
Climb the stalk
Feel its power
Dangling over me

Down they tumble
Into my hands,
Throw them down
See where they land

Lower, lower
Take me slowly
Fingers open

Lover, lover
Take it slowly
See where they will land

Red berries
Hang over my head
Suck the juice
As it spreads

Into my hands
Into my hands

Coming down
The red juice falls
Without pith,
Without bitterness

Magic beans
Make the tree grow tall,
Magic fruit
Makes the girl grow fatter

Up high, through branches,
An eerie light
I’ve not seen before.
Watch as it dances

Now, I can’t see through all the red
That’s coming down,
That covers
My face, my neck

My hands, once white,
Now are red,
And the world’s
Changed colour again -

A bird in green,
A scarlet blur,
Lost to the taste
Of the sticky curr

The fruit's on my lips,
Hush now, it’s a secret.

Greedy hands, greedy face,
Lost to the sky, lost to taste.
Feed on this fruit,
Nothing wasted

Eating berries always leaves
A red mouth,
A red mouth,
A naughty red mouth.

Hear her shout

Fee-fi-fo-fum
I smell the blood of an Englishman

Fee-fi-fo-fum
I smell the blood of an Englishman!

Punter’s Peg

The man in the hat’s granddad began to rot; skin unraveling, knob-ends tightening, old man’s flesh and bone. Larval white cataracts puling in the seams of his eyes, pustules forming round the cups of his cheeks, russet chilblain. Legs bowing, knees buckled, ankles stropping the bells of his trousers. A sad sight indeed. Every Tuesday afternoon his granddad patronized the Chap Sisters bordello housed in a walkup on Aleman avenue, lolling away the afternoon soused on sweet gin and powdered flesh. The madam, an abundant woman with pearl white skin and soft features, welcomed his granddad with a perfumed kiss and a vicar’s wink (tall tales are best left for rainy days and sometimes).

Whores’ crumpets and jammy jam, sluices down the borehole like a house on fire. Best supper I ever had, sweet treacle sweets lolled on the knob-end of the tongue, like a calf on a saltlick. I’m just chipping, no need to worry and fret. Granddad said the whores’ crumpets were divine, not a sweeter sweet to be found. …shoes piled neatly at the feet of the bed, just incase the bogmen come crashing, cunt so-and-sos! The maidenly madam made the most delicious crumpets, slaved in butter and jelly jam. Served them with salted cod, left a tangy pong on the nip of your tongue. …granddad hadn’t a foot to standup on, had to use his punter’s peg to get a leg up, poor crippled bastard.

O Daddio

Pembina Boniface beside the genius .
Twilight on the mountain, nary a bulb
Bastard can see the earth worms wiggle.
There are hands in the highest boughs
that shake their fingers at the storm clouds.

15th floor with Pembina Boniface and Captain Duffy
here vertigo Swinging Oooooohhh daddio this is
Montreal August

friend fly moon sky ice cream desert

dogs in the park

There's a limp minutes hand
on the old brewery clock
Asunder are the kings gutted horses
nary a sound
no tallies for a moment
the rain is full of golden fleece
Have the pirates hide the treasure


Its bloody raining ___ we're supposed to go eat
yer making Soba Noodles spaghetti
its hot bloody thundering summer
rain pissing pouring down
and the fish? the fish's called what?
Its called No One's name and ours

Magical Mysterium Towards

Plausible is the scuttling sound in rays from a drifting presence of sun. Green from regular trees blooms on a modest boat of feeling. The people, in their arc, treasure something of very rascal plain. Sour common of lived places reject the sward, sometimes, and a language of bells ensues. The Beatles struck a rock of mired glow, worded with refracted topic sentences and a tiresome song like “Ballad of John and Yoko”. Season blends into tree bark, dogs lead an earnest trust, and the usual kids stumble on the grass. Reason stops the uniform when sunlight backs away from the stage and words are more like shadows. People are as old as their feet, or stout chairs in the presence of god. Weird instants replace other instants, merging with hard balances. No one wants to sleep now, but the emblems fizzle. Blunt objects restrict themselves in the time it takes darkness to spell certain names. Keats died for no one’s sins, in the cluttery days, with a wink towards some transit of station. Then poetry subsumed intention, shares of the new model were offered, and the process turned a corner. Now all cats climb onto all tables, dogs continue to die, and the Beatles will not really disband. The varicose veins of these impressions start to make sense, tho making sense, itself, is a duffer in the park. Kindly dance along those lines now, which have been freighted with feet in time.

as you read it

Take it all to Auschwitz / all your thoughts / cranberried into cattle cars / it’s what you thought / the cluster stab work you did behind the desk / on the news / counting selectively / cheerfully fetishizing a sharpened dominant narrative / it’s so brutal / your make up I mean / foundation buckled by sweat / found as it lies / prostrate / altered / entered / sodomized upon your glistening desk / figures / nubile numbers / slick / young / bruised / credibility crunched / talking up recession / oh dear / I hope I’ll still be able to smoke cigarettes / blow my beloved fatality into your suited face / your posture / oh a flamboyant tie / I got you wrong / your human too / frail / weak / phone embedded in your cheek / and no one talks / but I’ll spunk (reader’s voice - here he goes again with his bodily juices) texts upon your jowls / fat / wobbly / wibbling to the expression of your jaundiced / envious vision / imaginary spectres of black bile / made up / shiny and only pink / like the Barbie doll I fingered in toys R us / examined tabloid / eyeball probed / like knickers at wimbledon / please / please bend over short skirted lady / in front of the royal umpire on a step ladder / in front of the stupidly numerous middle classes officiating lines / in front of the slaves collecting and groping balls / clutching your sweaty towels / your beck and call / you lazy fucks / why not mutilate sexual organs / no / I’ll tell you what / why not sit down and have an orange juice / you’ve been on your aristocratic feet for so long / killing in order to cut / subcutaneous / baubles of fat / strawberries / cream / my own cream / strikes again / catalysed / nipples exploded beyond sports bra / aaahhhhh / such a fitful attempt at sport / a billion monkeys still play it / in space / in place of typewriters / a brainset invented by Reverend Dodgson / Liz Stride / advantage / deuce / advantage / deuce / advantage / deuce / and so it goes / the little monkeys play it without resolution / on and on / on and on / whole genetic strains have been given over to its completion / but it never comes / little monkey families are proud of the lines they’ve watched for generations / the sweaty towels they’ve held dutifully / the lives they failed to lead / unimportant decisions they’ve witnessed / bend over / show me your red currant / please / please / groans a little monkey / its iccle enervated limbs giving out / clutching a sweaty towel / have I mentioned sweaty towels yet / clutched / handed to pacing back / thrown back by ath-elite / into face / at slave in anonymous uniform / you gutted her didn’t you / manipulated fecal matters / paraded words over unedited and raw images / the peripheral dead taken out in the next loop / resuscitated / revived / unshot and forlorn in their backwards lives / without resolution worthy of HD / pixellated vagaries / jagged curves undulate / blur into background pastiche / the pretense of a house manicured by a horny housewife / your cock dribbles under desk / dry / rough / tight / thoughts in out of place tragedy…