in due fashion

break forth and take hold the object of your unending longing;
it from self withhold the brutal truth of an aching soul!

how our exploding stars of raging hope do ribbon out in streams of folding
backs and strangled tones, in hues of such diminished light, so damned, broken, and thus untold!
with a surge of wind no discouragement made as to the length and width of their liberal spread,
but this dying stride of a blessed ride does suffer that from which it's thrown!

frigid

careening off the sides of a red-heart
chasm saddled with the echoes of a thousand voices;
the sounds abound, they sweep across and wear the
cliff-face down
to shatter upon the rapid surge
eroding away, the ruined ground

gifts

Creation blooms a birth right weans itself
from the supple river of milk running down the center
of a sacred world intonation;

Progression bursts like sticky fruit
and slops the world with messy spurts
from a bleeding wound;

swinging reckless tearing hold on the short rough hairs
of Anger's rage,
with feet gripping place in the fat skin's fold,
a bloodcurdling screams past the ancient green mold
around the ears to the brain
and then it explodes!

webster's

untitles write themselves across
a nothing space from which it lacks a
grievous way to grab an urge create a
swelling mass of insanity in tribute to the
commonness bereft
of its commonality.
through this, of course, the words they flow
and stroke the quarters of our deepest harmonies
and sympathies;
the ears, they hear!
a-sound so smooth it slips a simple finger to the depths of the soul!
when the silk of a simple throat pitch hums and it drums with the
hurt of a rich, rich tone!
i groan and grovel to hear the blessed magic of another,
rattling off and popping pistons in the air,
boiling bubbling hurling its witticisms in the wind!
a melancholic gale, quaffing a sup from the dregs of a lake,
and heedlessly hurling its fate t'ward reckless abandon!

held

from the same old seat
shivers a tall glass bottle with just
a little bit of white wine left hugging the walls and
melting my insides, inside-out;

what a waste it is, to recall with
utmost confidence the times of days gone by,
and bygone the times for all intents and purposes.

but here we sit, wet-fingertipped with lips against the glass
we hold to our mouths as we bear the grand procession of orderly events
it bleeds away from daydreams stretching out back decades since

to stone

i think to how my dreams were shaped to perfection,
specified with architectural precision;
life's without its sense of forward march, and in time's blank stillness
burns this concept absence seeks to mold.

our plans are forged in the furthest hearth,
with towering flames our hopes are formed.
with beauty unspoken, from ground it grows,
an ardent helix:
hardened, solidified, and unperturbed.

wrought with passion and fanned by peace,
ecstatic to find a that which it leads to
some joyful penetration of the tacit reply,
as is the god's mutter against the blank of the sky.
but when unravels helix, to wondered dust,
the future reminds us of how it's defined;
separate from that it leaves behind.

damn

love spills like fine wine
upon some favored shirt of mine