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Friday, December 08, 2017

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The sound of aggregate activity
Breezy in the late, stabbingly bright blue
Of an afternoon
Soft yellows caress
The late-out-of-the gate lilacs
Smelling sensual, lurid.
What rest can be got from this swirl
Of smells overpowering
Malefactors everywhere
Actors and blinks, nods, and who’s hooligans.
Read them the Cactus riot act.

She flowers every seven years
Or if the new moon follows on the first
Friday after Easter infection,
Then, only then, will she spread her. . . petals
It was in a photograph, or –gram
Heavy metal pelt stain melt brain; ham radio
Operator; one caught in the electricity

I saw him on my walk home from world.
Singing ‘ole glory to the world,
A face turned murderous
As if a cloud smirched the soulful sky.

In the corner of the photograph,
A figure in sticks, wrapped in the dangerous
Sourcery of the exorcism,
Darkness swirling off him in colour grids
Dextrous fingers of the toppling dominoes
In the foreground, under the table,
Barely visible.

Flim flam, hone it for the street corners.
In the hides of summer, wearing
Sun’s great glory on the sweat-sheened skin

We can write about life,
Or we can write about life.

Precipitating the “oh, not the ‘we’ shit again.”


The happiness of a single fuck not given
The apathy trickle-down vectors
Swerving high on unpredictable
Ever veritably new, improved
Dazzling desuetude.


Suet in a fur-trap.
A straw, balanced on a camel’s back,

For a response to a query
Responded to and refuted
From every corner of the crypto-verse.

The cacti, in a row, made a fence
To keep the cattle in,
Some do it,
Some don’t.


The next time she appeared,
A blue streak ran rampant around
The orbituaries climbing out of the newsstands.
Surprise factor, attention disperser.

Social facts uncalled upon.

This is poetry’s rent.

Tantamount to a slope of fine powdered salt
To cushion our 20 feet jumps
Down a steep incline.

Don’t think too much
Or you will start to smell the cowpaste
Piling up in the meadow.