plethoral blue, two kings are we
we as paper, more common than the seven ghosts
of a seven-carrot gold that feeds our wood.
it has bubbles. it has a setting sun.
it has teeth enough to wonder where we are
to wander like a beetle in the stomach of a Crow.
who knows not now
each tree a will of it\'s very own disguise.
it grunts a love through a wilderness
of rock and snow, of fantasy
of a single thrust of fever in a cage.
am told it is December.
am told all pennys circle like a twig.
but am fast asleep
am last in line for a feather in my cap,
no looking back
what seems was never so.
a word of mouth at sixty begs,
not a single penny more
for the whore with skin so beautiful yet shy.
as always there.
kicking we as lovers, a bloody mary sings a Panther\'s song.
bad news. bad news.
my skin is pale, my mouth a kiln for pottery and god.
two dozen more am told
tho I have counted twentytwo,
that is seven more than I dared, confess or otherwise.
I have my castle, have my windows, my early morning muse
am so amused but still I frown
and clown around with a migraine\'s thrust
and a green balloon that belches as it sings.
am not afraid of Virginia Wolf.
I chose to go and not come back at all.
but a handfull of god has snared and dared she lives.
breathe, not be ashamed,
clear air, invisible, purple by name and numbers
pure and clean.
here come\'s him now
into this room
where the flowers with no daughters
with naked mouths spit out their dead
listening to a world that dares
it\'s miracles unfold.