Works

Buying up egg rolls at 50' a kick,
they royally entered our bloodstream
- a riot of sensation
akin to dynamite caps
kicked off in the brain.

Later, sitting in the booth
a chocolate brown wall...

Invitingly, the sea shines her stars,
captive flames within an impatient heart
as darkness loads the pleasent isles with coarseness,
slow sparks rise over a roaring fire.
...

She was fading -
into the stone
into rifled shadows heavy
with fallen light,
rippled boughs
of splitting fruit &
droopy leaves
to a sallow body under clumsy years...

No open barge
crowded with nameless waifs
or junks in a teeming harbour
- just odours spilling from
a back alley,
stair wells littered with cheap saki
bottles, one propped
to rifle the door.

"And the day is a wounded boy." Garcia Lorca
...

The leaves lie hidden as spades about their home.
Brief movement of a kitten, then silence
till the car's engine drones.
Close by, a pioneer cemetery sits near a secondary wood.
...

Some lives have themes.
Goldfish that stubbornly die;
compatability only with distant lovers
- flowers (but no sweet-breads)
that wilt to the touch.

Waiting. Charcoal-grey cat...

Artists (astrologers never lie)
are birthed when
Venus is rising -
not against cat's whelp
(eye of newt, tongue of frog)
calamitous mist or London fog;
far, ferny forbidding fenn.
...

I was playing sonatas on your skin -
no beauty & the beast scenario
though the Tower pulchritude was intact
with enough purple agape grape leaves
and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve...

He was Popeye the Sailor Man
- at least in Picture book and poem
the mind falling from a drooping ledge,
thrust of twilight though working
up to the bargaining edge of words ...
...

"Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut."
Charles Manson

I
The image complete
- collapsing corpses, rag dolls
with skulls shot away ...
ruby-red blood spurting...

When snow falls, there lives
the shrill cries that
leaves are not alone.

Each flake, a mute testimony
not a leaf falls before
surgery prunes the individual tree.

Cold November after...

Many devils are in woods, in waters, in wilderness and in dark,
pooly places ready to hurt. . . people, some are also in thick,
black clouds. ? Martin Luther
...

The sea is a requisitioned article in my possession.
Above, in fat circles of conformity, glide
turkey vultures, their combs
a rich obscenely red.

The guano rocks are isles and stepping stones...

The dangling of bells
...amid faint tingling,
the inspirational nature of their lies
between each peal.

Classical repertoire, then dryness.
Heavy swelter, the green ore...

A story about tears that became minnows and sobs large fishes in their place.
...

The breath of candles,
hot and murky,
on the still air.

Giant factories wave wands
in luxury;
contaminate roving commuter bands
brown, from dirt knitted through white bread hair.

He sat with no more compunction
than an eel fish
big-faced, bloated,
the complexion of a beehive
- a dragnet of emotions
crammed into a tumbler
upended in water.
...

The sun is a burning magnet on the water.
Durable, our boat is a sizable pretzel in the arms of the bay.
Warmth with contortion, the clash of passions
tug the funnelled swooned water.
...

The Haitian effect of stars
grinds the blue firmament
like a cable car by night.
transfixing energy.

One hears myriad tokens
falling into a collection box,
then the twitter of bells...