We are so
perfectly lonely.
We forgive
pulling on a wishbone
standing in the corner
of the kitchen.
The faltering
zen of epigrams
land with wonder
at your chest.
Who can make me
when there is nobody
to take away
from me?
Only one thief can steal self-confidence. – mh clay
The world has so far held its
Captive secret from me.
I am only but half slave half
Driver to the place where we
Will meet. And it will be there,
In dim light,
Enriched by dark wood motif,
When your eyes bounce and flit
And from that, follow and return
to mine, you will know that
I was once good and decent.
I’ll swear it, but found my health
In the children of false love.
From what I gave them I felt
A bit less than half empty.
Still look, look, look around.
Take in this madhouse.
A store of treasure, heaped together
Fatuous and hand-holding,
Slipping coin onto coin unto another.
I look, still, through their window,
Keeping half apart, do not worry.
A couple of coins palmed and passed to keep time and slackers at bay. – mh
Who in their right mind would ever want to date in summer, when it seems at night the fattest moth comes to lick its elective candles? The time is much better spent singing unanswerable doggerels under catalpa leaves which move more sweetly than any pied feminin under tout l’eclairage naturel, in the destined firmament, which shakes off any notion for high hopes with phosphorescent trails, streaming across a large majority of our dazzled irises.
I cannot doubt there is any glee to O’ Hara’s ode to Mayakovsky but there is a nonsense in the air tramming along a halo which is in residence over your blank state.
How shall we perspire in our depths of being? In the rhythmic sheaths which is an interlude of youth, rage and Elderly Summit. Or over this multilateral picnic, a thousand ants to desire our scant privy? In either case it howls Innuendo at my haunted moon, changing the surf in a different rhythmic land.
xxxxyou may be wise
xxxxbut can we leave it
xxxxto the jesters
xxxxI am soft
xxxxI melt and become
xxxxhard quite easily
The softer puppets
may only be scarred
by the hands who animate them.
So complicated, a summer love! Better, a winter love; smoldering desire with no competition. – mh
1:11 is born from the Sylph
and eager with appetite.
So, as far as death goes,
well, we can always
look forward to 1:12
Be it clock time, calendar time or geological era; each swallows the one before. Fatness is the thing! – mh
The adventurous curves
Stasis
The voluptuous lips
Silenced
The Marmoreal Chest
Staid and blinded
The endangered hips
Saved
The enrapturing eyes
Emptied into me, pavlovic
If the best is set in stone, shouldn’t all good dogs salivate perpetually? Heel, boy, sit! – mh
