everything has lines ( Read more... )

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

The wallflower regrets
what’s broken
and focuses attention on
the sum of many things.

The wallflower gets hardened
by soft edges
for the joy of contradiction
is her primary feature.

The wallflower finds comfort
in the nectar
of billowing paining notes
and fastidious throws of love.

A woman reeks with banquets of unpleasantness ( Read more... )

those ol’ tunes sure do ( Read more... )

I’ve been inhaling and exhaling all my life ( Read more... )

Had a sweet little girl, I lose my baby, boy ain't that bad ( Read more... )

Cleaning beads on ( Read more... )

In the Garden
of Mind
Chapels rest
Upon breasts
As Choir sings through toes
in soft deliverance.
In the Garden
of Mind
heels lock in sand
to cast away the aching truth
of every forgotten man

In the Garden
of my Mind
Bright birds renounce
conscious truth
Instead to rest
Sparrow-heads
against the heat of land;

Where heart reprimands
Longing.

Deep within my jaw
Rests a world
Of dark, plum tendrils
and tongue to harness
Blighted truth.

Etched into the Root
Nestles of caves
Stand muddied and raw
Storming rivers and clean-faded memory.

Faded-clean
of fickle fiends
Life infatuates the ear.
Starry imaginings-
Lights, fear.