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The stream (all workshops)

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Dali's moustache

the
insistence of memory is limpid time,
limping
persistent little bastard he
that waits
for sunrise,
the death blow, the almighty sting, the fraying coattail
to grasp
to cling to
to not yet be devoured

this anger for these reluctant gods
awakening from our slumber
incessant with the sound,
moving away,
always moving away

like a speeding train, its whistle
cutting through the fog and the density
of the unborn night.

Sum Times

From tequila, and limes
to simpler times

when we were still finding our way;

thought we knew it all
we'd perpetually fall

taking the scenic route in life's maze.

We knew of no fear
while learning to steer

flying high by the seats of our pants;

we lived without care
considered each dare

we played hard, and we all learned to dance.

We sure had our fill
of good times, if you will

and each lesson truly played with our hearts;

An Equinox Prayer

At the balance, a fulcrum
at the crisis, a stasis
as days and nights come equal
may you find power in stillness
and reflect as we move into
the season of night
on dreams and rest and healing
may you have them in abundance

Most Manly Ones

Most Males
Have more breadth
At their waste lines
Than length
Fully sea-able down below

Lovely take some help of trick photography
And
Become your desired one
Pawn....of sexology
And
A modern celebrity
We all love
And
Yet disown

Porn star

If I could lick my genitals
Just like my neighbours pet
I’d film it with my camera
And I’d put it on the net

I’d soon be rich and famous
Like a real life porno star
I’d buy a great big mansion
And a big expensive car

A swimming pool, Jacuzzi
Naked women by the score
A wall hung with old masters
Persian rugs upon the floor

But that’s really just a dream
And I’d be happy I suppose
If I could lose my belly
And could see my bloody toes

Liquid Desire

pink and crimson
are your sighs and moans
submerging in the splendor of white
in a rainbow arch you rise to steal
the riot of colors with a squeal

raj (sublime_ocean)

P l a t e

focus sweet
the whisper and this
press knocks the ink
aligned
and the sheet of idealizations
is lifted blazing with contrasts

You were my plate for years
and every day my print
would arrive
like dawn
sullen and drawn
Exhuberant and errant

where has all the resolution
gone
when its change needed
winds heeded

I shall miss the nocturne
standards
the daylong seige
the turning of the plea
and standard borne
principle

Collector (dedicated to Ann of Norway)

No longer do ghosts haunt the graveyard stones
Their wraith-like bodies now sleep as their souls pass over
So who haunts these cities of the dead?
I am known by the dead, as The Collector

I wander the land where headstones lay
I walk slowly between them
Brushing my fingers ever so lightly across their granite tops
When I receive a sign, I stop

A Coin For My Pocket.

A coin for my pocket sir
for something to eat?
with no mum and dad
we beg on the street.
Not eaten for two days
my little sister and me.
A coin for my pocket sir
for a warm cup of tea?

A coin for my pocket miss
to get shoes for our feet?
We haven’t got a penny
or anywhere to sleep.
Our feet are really sore
without shoes they bleed.
A coin for my pocket miss
for something we need?

Callous Playtime

She hangs a little taut.
Day old dead,
Now her belly bloats.

Her tongue is limp and wet,
Her hair, alive in wisps of air;

A small mockery of her
Still rocking body.

Swing her to and fro,
And watch her lifeless
Limbs dangle like a doll.

Watch her swing, to and fro,
And have a drink of bread and blood.

When she's all drained,
We'll take her down,
And find us another toy.

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