street like a circumpunct

a concrete toybox

with a hatchback heartbeat

brick-orgies of houses loom over

the lawns shaved with diamonds

the rituals

the microcosm

conjoined houses breeding

dull children

with photograph senses

with monotonous syndrome

with weak bodies and clean teeth

the clocks are lazy here

II

last month I was rewarded by dead badger

head draped over curb

like a masterpiece

by noon he’d been cleaned away

The True Haul of Life…

They’re hauling life about on their backs,
I can see it’s heavy invisible hard shell.
The only worry my people now lacks,
is about a non return ticket straight to hell.

Not that the rich don’t want us to have it,
they’d get rid of us commoners in a flash.
But they know they’d be well in the shit,
finding someone else to manage their stash.

nothing lesser than exotic
the simmering and the shivering
quivers aroused
all over the silken
eel like curvaceous body
serpentined
entwined
and
dipped in white wine

sweet as the rose’s liqueur
if ever you've tasted
supine oozes the fruits of love
tasty
and
luscious too
who won't relish the sword
with which slice
Oh one time lover you

Venus's eye stares above the garden
Its sullen eye blinks- then hardens
16 veils of August night
Venus shares with bird winged flight

The garden black beneath the heat
Starlight stands, as petals speak

"When will you buy another truck?"
my wife asks each time she gets inside.
Then I reply "With any luck,
this old heap will be my final ride."

She just smiles and rolls her eyes
as I sit down in the driver's side.
This back and forth has no surprise.
My truck wears miles with shambling pride.

It's paint is faded, clear coat is peeled.
My rear has worn the seat to fit.
The floor board dirt's nearly congealed.
There may be fossils beneath it.

I do tend to
consume myself
within myself
It seems to come naturally
no need for help

Why do I have this talent
to own my reality?
Am I really
lost in my insanity?

Clarity seems vague and distant
like I'm lost at sea
fog
Withholding my resistance
Futile thoughts of undone chores
pilin up along the shores

The way you’re stuck inside my chest
 is best
Twisting my guts to coils just beneath my flesh

If you look close you can see it ripple

The muscles moving, mangling my middle

Manufacturing something like a slow and painful death

I wish heroes exist.
With that problems are less
I am saved every day.
It would be a great deal of security,
to see them flying on schedule.
They would kill all the villains,
and dedicate the battle to me.
They will never die because
They have super powers,
They are immortal...
They live to protect me.
But I only watch my heroes on TV.

Our reality a causality of the sedation of the human mind and the human heart,
The closed eyes trained to see nothing but what is presented upon a TV screen,
The broken anvil of our ear unable to hear the crashing hammer screams,
The screams that cry out for the shattered dreams, the forgotten Utopian ideals,
Our touch deadened and kept at arm’s length, each end of a handshake,
Gone is the embrace showing love for the fellow man, only power-grip remains,
We care only enough to be convenient, we don’t care enough to fight for children maimed,

sunlight pours
dust waves
bowl

thorn ridden scars
borne fresh with limbed
sighs

pressed like trophy birds
tossed
on a grey eden

promises
held together with
alleyway stitchs
this sway
descending staircase
juncture

this depths pressure
against each breath
like cool
decipher
pearled on the tidy
darkness

flickers of recognizance
in the light
emotion fulfilled
in the charged atmosphere
of our older shadows