nightencover

In molten velvet mountains
I stole’d on towards the nightencover
branchy crackles!
owly downing!
thrushing covers!
silken linens rivelled over: writhing under
streaming fogways – burbles babbling
how sweet
and strange
the ancient oakens stand
a gaze or two or three
benounced my footaways away
me; downwards greenly
slip serenely
more waltz than amblers
in leaves it seems

take up arms take up legs!
if not for the sake of your being –
better for the molten velvet mountains
of our progenitors

Cadaverous Ghostlies

Lizard eyes and top hat
Stare at me from beyond my tomorrow
And my today
My love lies

barren, in a field of dicks.

Big dicks

Small dicks

Samoan ones, mostly
But they are all dicks in their unique way

The lizardface hisses and pisses
Ejaculating ink into words on the papers strewn across my flesh
Novels of ecstasy and semen and divine judgment from my estranged uncle
O Frabjous Day!
Caloo Calay!

The lizardface speaks to me in a dead language I cannot fathom
Tongue-lashings, no doubt, from my grandchild’s ghost
That hasn’t been born yet, but speaks through time
Like the ancients used to say
You can’t judge my cock by its cover…

Unless

That cover looks like my cock

The Imperial Cruise

Cocksure cries from the gunners’ bowels,

Cahoots!! They’re in cahoots!!!

Screams the captain from beneath his faded covers,

The acquiescence of certain arguments is inevitable

Sagan had it right in 62,

And in 67,

And in 73.

Our new religion, acidity.

Charlestown

Tenfold to the bare naked of bones of my father sit,

Obligatory reactions from a holy child,

The weary call of the cat,

The naked mole-man’s testicle,

All things with true natures show,

The endless bottomless pit below,

Of horrible stank and shadeless land,

The barren borogroves,

Of mankind’s’ oligatrophic anus.

Goodnight, cruel specters,

Let my future intentions waver with repudiated profundity.


Carl Jung, Walachian high priest, circa 1957.

Along The Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Vomiting epithets on the destitute -

“The Swamp Man”
“Old Longface”
“No-Balls”

They grunt and lurch along
They lurch along the Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Spewing insults on lovers -

“Stenchful whores”
“Love is a lie”
“No-Balls”

They hump and stroll along
They stroll along the Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Barfing fabrications on Kings -

“Meaty chops”
“Nothing like a dog”
“Many-Balls”

They bellow and strut along
They strut along the Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Regurgitating undigested distgust on my Seiney reflection –

“No-Balls”
“No-Balls”
“No-Balls”

I weep and weep along
I weep along the Seine

The Deep Wood

The woods are dark and menacing this afternoon,
The branches tangle like hearty roots,
They twist sensually around one another,
Like snakes in the throes of passion.
The humidity,
And the sun,
Blaze.
The pressure seems low, the air is still,
Ominous.
Surely what the heavens have in store,
Is strong.
The leaves crunch, yet no creature is afoot.
Methinks I heard an owl hoot,
As the clouds start to roll in.
Then, they roll back out.
The day will go on,
Without a storm.
The air is still, yet calm.
The branches don’t seem so ominous now,
They are sensual,
Not severe.
Deep in my heart,
I know,
That somewhere,
Deep in this wood,
Sits an owl,
In the throes of passion.

Sambone Cooper-Barley

Oh! Alabamba’s prodigal son!

How gracious of you

To recant your ways,

And stand here,

Amongst your brothers’ and fathers’ bones

And recount that ancient tale.

That tale of fear, and deceit.

Played out upon a turkey-strewn field.


Winter 1487

An indigent’s hoary cry,

At the sight of a dying houndman’s eye

That eye of a king,

Yet that snout of daschund,

That ear of pug,

What fowl demon swept this under the rug?

What flock of turkeys?

Did swallow up

The noises?

The cruel machinations of the night?


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