036: Dissolution of the unborn

From beyond ramparts of time

and columns of rue,

they sing and call to their mother,

echoes storming the firmament of bone,

their song to my pain, the words I never said,

winter flesh, siamese grief.

Beneath the roots of my castles,

their frail bodies linger,

bugs traced on a windshield,

bellowing deep, till I fall asleep,

build my temple of dreams

stone by stone, preciously,

a religion of images iced, sanctified.

My children, stretch your watery wings,

for the abyss knows your names

the way I never will.

I'd force the arms and stress the springs back

to return to the source, the starry womb,

for every word unsaid,

every glance unreached,

every line not crossed,

every name not written.

In golden sand, the imprint of your mother's face,

her unbearable beauty

still burns like an open wound.

035: My only carriage

Tonight the asphalt seems to cushion my steps

as I'm trailed by a procession of bards,

weightless and smooth,

bearing fiddles like feathers,

poised for a touch.

Tonight my lagging limbs feel lighter,

animated to a thought,

a nimble leprechaun laughing crystalline,

carefree below observant chords

in the moonlight glaze.

Tonight I can hear firewood crackling

in my abode of loneliness;

and those present in faint corners mean no harm,

for we're still young, we still have time

and our song still glides above the waves.

034: We will never meet again.

Step by step on the electric treadmill,

an electric tombstone epergne

in a funeral of watts and what ifs,

cask laid bare like a pirate ship

ghosting in the unbreezed milk, without refusal.

And few extol the throbbing thread

of vivid smudge by sprawling palms - tendril tight,

internal to digest the charging tides

that ooze and roll throughout

lives of commutes and numbed prayers,

in conked out breath, condemned and wishful;

lifelines connected in needle eyes,

sowing strips of spent skin and dried digits,

seams in desert camouflage outfits

and noose neckties curdling a dirge pattern.

Another pint of Greek fire concurs,

submerging the candle, nurturing the rage

to spit in saturnine hunger with a stabbing spine

spitefully built against the dexter branch.

Hark! Your fixtures are graves of ice,

your speedways slope into incisive winds

that jag against our fragile flesh,

so boil and distill - and let only such elect few

as pollen drops be spared from consumption,

for flashlights are futile in the conquering dusk,

appropriated house of fog, where hunters stalk and nail

mere exhales of long-gone gods;

in the churchyards and broken plains

of this earth never will you find me.

033: New Text Document (4)

In the mug,

the coffee's dried

to crust.

In the air,

summer smells

like rot.

Down the aisle,

nothing but

a blank wall.

In memories,

the glow

of a flame.

How do you

say hello

with a smile?

How do you

think goodbyes

open-eyed?

And the gold

burns my hand -

still clenched.

And the longing

drifts and whirls

like sand.

Let the night

slowly creep

from the sea.

Let the light

dim away

into sleep.

Reaching higher

than towers

of glass.

And my footsteps

are my only

companions.

032: Midnight sun

A day of more, a song of meeker noise

that gently weaves upon my inner ear,

a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.

Against the strain, to falter skulking ploys

and bring down towers of encroaching fear,

a day of more, a song of meeker noise.

By tender touch, affable vaster joys

and bosky groves so still - and drawing near,

a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.

That day I'll pass the plays of girls and boys,

pursuing inklings far from savage drear,

a day of more, a song of meeker noise.

The blasting gale that graven stone destroys

will never rake this image I hold dear,

a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.

Redemptive notes from trumps of dream envoys

in velvet dawn will find my vision clear,

a day of more, a song of meeker noise,

a whisper bailed to slip in deeper poise.

031: Perched on the sill

In a slow scuttling breach,

mild leer of shimmer peak,

toast to the health,

as dragons clash,

and obfuscate face in silver shards.

Lance a rope ladder

to the tempest rush,

broken bottle neck dibs

a bronze coin flip.

Dam sour streams in my pulsing bulk,

in his drain I've slaked

far too long.

Screwed driver, asleep

on the wheel, stern against

tender innards.

I've ground and gritted to karst

on muck road miles

on the science of fiber in action

to botch revolutions,

springs spun sinister,

undone metabolic.

I've mustered mobs and armies,

filling nil with clamour from their mouths in rot

and parting brakes to gauge

whether the sun will fuse

feathers of lead.

Read canine spill scribbled on pages

of diaries oiled sky crimson, to expand function,

outstep logic

and razor rust dull;

and who would align to seek debris of me

in the resplendence

left over when the grime is purged?

030: Stand at the crossing

Hang

and bleed

in the unknown.

Red line focus,

twist the neck

and plant

colors of war

on a wave battered shoal.

Power vertex structure

of maternal ground

I raise

as my jade lifemask.

In weakness,

so strong.

While the scattering

runs on

all around,

chasing the light

across cold void,

I'll wallow in

the black unseen.

His aeon fingers secure

my speck of sand

as whole

as can be,

in the mind of a man,

in the heart of a child,

in the eye of a mouse,

roaming the field.

Demons deny,

turning face,

turning back.

The granite star

is a mouth ever-hungry

to replenish desire.

Don't stop.

Don't break.

All I possess,

reduction to unreason,

wish to mire

rotating arms.

Field mice dream

of being children.

Children dream

of being men.

Men dream

of sleep.

[last 2 lines adapted & expanded from somebody's Y! messenger status message]