A little Less Panache

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.

the world is mine

the world my sight.

six miles of light

am heavy as a child

and all I have is photographs

of you in a burning wood

black red and brown;