a little less panache.
each window breaks it\'s fingers for the comming of the lord.
I have found the shield uncertain as I am.
riding horse-back with the vinegar and chive
alive and well with imbecile and child.
am tiger-wild with a thimble for a friend.
no rivers end
no two halves ever shaped as lovers crossed.
what shape of air I breathe beneath a wave?
I am a water-colour slave with a wooden leg.
I have never learnt to fly
nor dare I pick the mercy of a stain.
many a time
either eight or ten
tho my nine lives suck the words of something more.
I am told of death in the cold arms of a tree.
my friend. my spine. my mouth of a thousand chords.
my lord no more a monkey on my knee;
your marigold lungs
where rises so the fallen idols
shrink beneath a butterfly and dress.
am miles above the fruit.
breathe.
breathe beyond the chicken gut
the last blapsheme
the angel with my butter on her teeth.
below the knees
ten perfect toes
all foes I love
tho I hate the love of spinal cord and lung.
a well hung man
swinging with a mermaid
hanging with the kisses
of a starfish almost new
sucking blood from the wrong end of a yew.
it is Tuesday and the time we never owned
circles prey and spits a winter rain.
through the innocence of mud.
sweep my dust
my lust no more
for a farmers wife knitting coleslaw with a thread
of fine green beans on a roller coaster ride.