Lost Colonies

Lost colonies.

Attacking cotton balls.

The water stretching over my year.

Serendipitous discover of disease.

An island with hideous creatures of smoke.

Aggressive violins singing in a corner I can’t forget.

I have rotting songs in a heap behind the house.

Little mimes are jerking to life in the detritus.

 

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I Live

I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn

taken the wind for a weekend lover,

argued with the reeking river.

I live in a castle of mattresses

and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.

Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,

doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.

World of Color

A world of color is rich,

is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.

What I need is a glass of hot pink,

an elixir of glowing purple,

a tincture of pool blue,

languid and electric.

My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale

on my bedside table

while a documentary on contemporary

art stabs me in shades of black and white,

Sound muted.

I Live

I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn

taken the wind for a weekend lover,

argued with the reeking river.

I live in a castle of mattresses

and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.

Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,

doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.

She

She is stove-mouthed

and thinks hideously.

Between her teeth are scrolls

from cities asleep.

Death cartwheels on my lawn

mostly to impress her,

And because in his spare time he has a pinwheel fetish.

After dark she will write my eulogy and

I will thank her

and never know her name.

A Love Like October

Singing into the bush

a lilac on a lark.

A love like October,

orange and fast.

The lilac has a heated language,

a boiling pattern of speech.

Frost is mute,

Abused,

Sinful.

The lilac leans toward the Bush

A waxy, evergreen sun,

needing shelter.

Pumpkins fight with lilacs.

Frost is the winner who takes all.

Yellow

Yellow reads the Kama Sutra

to write a new edition.

I admire her.

She admonishes me.

Lately I have rotted like wood,

muddled like a puddle.

Where is my orgasmic frenzy of doing

and being done?

22 Pounds of Wishes

I have 22 pounds of wishes hidden among the weeping wisteria.

The flowers by the pond have been melancholy a long time.

I drink with them.

Look at Lily’s tattoos.

Kind of abstract, don’t you think?

I’ve been told some people are really into that.

But the roses and I share the best laughs because we know it is not about pattern

but all about color and that soft, sweet texture on the fingerpads.

Meanwhile the snapdragons do deep, twisted math at the waters edge

and I drop a wish in the water.

 

Pharmacological Fog

Recapturing yourself will be easy.

White still in the bedroom,

structure from private, necessary snow.

dreaming of silence.

Your mind is a playground of artillery.

 

Capturing the sense of yourself will be hard,

Lost 2 feet tall in a field of chaff.

The women have needles and no yarn.

A man sits toward the curdling sun,

his face a mouth.

 

Sound your siren song

A gentle offering of wisteria wishes

and sulking letters.

Give her a sonorous rope to tie round her wrist

a little balloon bobbing desperately toward mass.