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]

029: Levers & cogs

Drink away the night hours

in fume fried brick bowels

and sing to mend an aching back

and a staggering dream path,

with the drained withstanding

of plastic film marked,

waxwork heartsease kicked in the groin.

How long can this conversation wander

before the fracture erupts

and the slimming seams can't hold out

the shimmering rain any longer?

How quick can I spin this bottle

to match the revolution of a silver barrel

sporting five vacancies?

Still mooring of sultry arms

stripped by morning blades,

a free ticket to the house of exile;

rebuked bill sticks to my neck, ink ingrained,

as I roll the boulder uphill,

the ticking haunts, unfading,

the noise of the world.

Condoned in cardiac entrapment,

lung wrestling and touch duels,

within gene strands, smoke grappling calisthenics.

Yet, should the burning wheel retort

I'll burgeon my spider legs, I know,

to stride the glass divide,

fleet-footed slip to the other side.

028: The flower thief

With trembling hands on the viscid scape,

to never spoil a precious petal,

pickpocketing sights in subway cars to relive,

to recreate card chapels of sincere prayer,

of unbecoming words trepid of loss.

Modulate memories in gold and black like she was,

thoughts to fornicate in sagging anthills,

escalade in grasshops a private mountain

straying the escarpment of a lost Naraka

whence cells crystallize in human tidbits to be

a feeble abode of instinct and love

and culled fear, skulking in cherry groves.

Here, a collection of coincidences

ascribed to paths of stars and cold bodies,

in a neonate game, older than my forefathers;

here, a bardo trap, a keep of comforts

of empty presents from a wishlist in tar

that spells like a last will protruding

through cracks in my undying joy.

Within gardens of evil and hope,

roots of rage reel to acquire frail flowers,

pollen of pictures in blood ringing

on the limbs of butterflies washed in sunfire.

Test the finites of absolution, alpha and omega

in one single consummate image, nerve induced

through the pupil of the third eye.

027: Amber

I subtract another brick

from the dank foundations

of your mansion cenotaph

to coalesce spazzed tension.

It collapsed in seaward breeze

as a waiting game missed,

reveal your features binary,

your tempest embrace dissed.

Distraught your elysian effigy,

rooted guilt in seams;

now and in aeon moonskin denied

the solace of the mean.

Inner workings of a manic queen

spearhead in vision songs,

occult forgiveness the earth knows,

lead us where we belong.

026: Empyrean damp

The tape is torn today.

Attire your life, still fits like a glove

encapsulated in blood tartan bearing threads,

autumn leaves shelling finite encompassing.

Knuckles redden in the mud of jest songs,

commuted ends of microscopic worlds

and wishful violence - butterfly wings.

According to nails, a vertical borehole

from the stem that aborts sandstorms,

you dig and dig, towards the black bone,

to find a scoreboard answer dry.

Tag. You're it.

Full speed ahead and the captain shouts

restraining orders, passengers selectively deaf,

blue murder sprinkled on cone cells.

Re-emerge from the drill shaft to find a dimness stained,

displacing stars, an iridescent graffito spells fracture.

Shoot you down with my silver bullet file,

inside your protection reach, a trail of cruelty,

shovel shallow graven, in a shallow riverbed

of trickling salt, raise you a new home

in an arctic stalactite confessional.

Tag. You're out.

Wear liquid red

against the grey

and drain the storm

caught in the fray,

alleviate

our words' decay.

The tap is closed today.