quirk I

some day in the breeze. i will build a pillar with swans. pleats. with carousel horse. and silver strings. twirled in fours. a ball of sophistication will roll down this charming delight. of the west village syncope. the candle flame. a-front my mug. tickles and giggles. chuckles and rhymes. dances in the smoke of coffee beans. the lights are dim. and horny men are walking around. looking. beseeching. craving a breast. or asinine hair. nestling. or other men. or candle flames. or spoons and knives. to cut and carve. or carve and cut. or drink wine on the illuminated faucets. that overhang a nimble vagina-rush. the mettle. the kettle. what's with the rhyme of illuminated faucets? and fixtures of overhanging candles. in the dusk. and sound of bodies jingling in a swoosh. you see through curtains. half-wanton. semi-sexed. an aroma of amour. clamor of wine bodies. the promiscuity. you say. those whores on the boulevard are promiscuous as fuck. diseased. and battered. left without morals. but did you know. you married womb. that your lover of sorts. is caressing a boy. a sexual hunt. hush hush. let's slow down. and whisper. i am married. but i want your flesh. she will never know. in booths. and alleyways. in the toilette combs. this is morals. i was told. them republicans. makes me laugh. right? where was the bible? no wait. it was temporary. there wasn't love. there was sex. she would never know.

in the village. i observe. the trees are swinging. talisman man. and bejeweled lady recline in a love seat. wax automobiles singing hymns. in chimes and grunts. here a thud. there a love. winks. the leaves. gyrate and land on the wooden flask. automotive stretch of fumes. spraying green sweat on hugs and bones. slender legs. lagged with hair. and twinged with lust. that estrogen. that fat. the memory making fumes. i don't know why. i am in love with the carousel on wine bar. like a midget that entangles. and disentangles. like a polemic olympian. holding a torch of iodine vapors. so volatile it makes me smile. what has happened to my mind? what has happened to my fingers of purity? the sweet smelling honey that used to trickle down my eye lids? the chastity of a little boy. growing up. not grown up yet. when does one say. i wonder. i am grown up. this is it. this is the maxima of my growth. this is my allure. no more. from here. there's only the downhill. the re-caving. disintegration. when does one say. i am mature enough. there shall be no more maturation to my uppity process. i dictate to the children. in the drapery of neverland. more or less maturation? so subjective. subjunctive. creative at best.

obsession with pulsation goes a long way. the paradigm rhythm of a heart sound. of stretch and squeeze. of what we say pulsatile. is alive.

lady

lady at the park. is legless. without motion. she yells. and screeches the name of a pagan jesus. and licks graffiti off her breasts. eating pebbles and wood. her eyes are white. so dead at night. so yellow in the sun. i want to make a shirt. with the honey from her eye balls. and a curtain from pustules of jasmine. beaded to her military stockings.

she is eighty three. of cucumber flesh. and banana peels. slippery from a tan. so silky. so milky. i want to play with her left nostril. and draw daffodils on her palm. give her a jar of coffee beans. and say. this drug will kill. you ruddy minx. you ruby whore. on sunflower fumes. you paradise gay. leverage your sanity against a mothy frothy tabernacle.

this is poetry from piss. a hetero- altruism. what meaning? a semi-colon sex. a disjointed rotundity from your diplomat tribunals. like salted cookies. plaguing honeydew scent. and vanilla molds. spifflicated on a city trail. this manhattan plague. this burning dream. this hyper-morphic alchemy. the problem is. little lady dove. you are the dove that broke. in a crash of literature. and handsome hair balls. there is none of that left on a technical pageantry. there is the story of the triple couple. they love each flesh. walk in threes and cough in twos. but cry in fours. or a curious eighth. what does this mean? more is more? less is diffuse? parallel chests without breasts. this is like the classic homophily of invented socio-crafts. and sociopaths and art lovers. they huddle across hudson. in bands of wool. green and ocher. eating neurotic pills. this civilization has come.

a new evolution. 

stabbed

he pushed the door aside. the black man. bleeding eyes. he wipes the blood with his long curious dreads. it bleeds. he wipes again. his hands jitter. and tremble. he was stabbed. on an october evening. going back home from work. i am blind. and i bleed. all day all night. give me dimes. and pebbles. scraps of geranium. i haven't eaten in four. a history of metaphor. i used to see my face. i used to see. the ripples on the lake. i used to see. the beauty of a tongue. the frame of cezanne. and the diamond on a dead wife. but i do not see. yet i do see. a darkness. i see? but i hear. the subway. rumble every minute. i hear a chatter when i pass. a sympathy. that sickens me. i abhor that clicking of your ruby rose bracelet. your breath of peppermint. whispering a psalm. i love the lord. and the lord gave me blood? the power of drugs. and a beer can epiphany. this was a life. this is a life. tangled in a dream. of a little home. of a little love. of a little kiss. of a little touch. of a beautiful smile. of a broken moon.

this palette of glass. take a drop of blood. on the lip of a brush. and swirl in spheres. one. two..three...four....and you create a wheel. of blood. patterns. a geometry of desire. a spiral spine. the backbone of an elegant loss. the loss of home. the loss of a smile. embroidered in a hymn. they saved your man. the manhood of piece. and peace of calm. of the boiling menagerie. of petal work wisps. of a continuous belch. this man of manners. where did he swim? in the bath house of shrill tendril men? on a vestibule. on a god. he swore. and now he bleeds. the blood on his finger tip. like glycerine sweat. and ruby rose. the blood on his eye ball. he licks the juice. to feed his soul. if nothing in this world. this blood is mine. this taste is mine. i eat my soul.

when the poet in the bar. sits and writes. and smiles. and drinks espresso in the corner. and eats macarons dipped in honey. and stares at the window. there is a working machinery. a mind that calms. a quiescent lust wrapped in a word of rhyme. and poetry. and an imagery of wounds. how it feels. how it may feel. how it could feel. feel? feel. feel what? an orgasm? a machinery of the poor? and smoke a paper can. they used to make those on the rooftops of the chinese doors. they are dead. their sons have forgotten. they had fathers and mothers. once.