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Direct Link: Cold Hearts and Warm Hands

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The Cavalier; The Callow

And that’s the end, oh wretched zealots,

sun-ravished radishes, sunken eyed, candy-

dipped falchions, the end of ripped blades

stepping steppes towards the millions, of

sanctified sinners plastered in pools, of

morning dew wetter than the tides of ides,

of night air respite, saturated jungle rings,

the end of phantoms’ clamorous pines,

each ogre a sight, painted in duds clasp

clapped, frowning for the rain, nodding

about their risks, woe to you, but this is

but the beginning, the beginning of new

deaths, of trees sapped and sapping fair,

of leaves chrome, so true and wispy, of

whimsy and horizons, of stout, of ports

o’ plenty, shrouding wind, beauty: it’s man,

and in the crowd you’ll still look high, to

the next missive, when we hide inside and

remember the last, and hold hands and

watch it all come, and when it arrives,

the path paining me with every passing

day, I’ll be here, ready to sing the next’s

pithy praise, dressed in slacks, holding

the sick air inside, ready with my word,

ready to ride the heat like a board towards

greater nights, smiling for your heart,

aiming to see you again, always next

Long Lines Sung Out of Time

Draft 1

In the leaping landing, I cursed and soured,

as the sun dripped day-light scuffed my dandi-

lion head, rows in a line, up time, in time, in

tow I followed the fallow fellow, sunken in

his drink like Jacques Cousteau on PBS, for-

tress, terse and limited the TV bellows, but as

a scarred and damaged crustacean floated to

the top of the pale ale static tale, the bleating

from the backroom cancered my eardrum

drunk canal, with a cavern deep screaming

my parents wailed in their deathbeds about

the son who dipped too deeply into the sprung

rhythm of dead priests, colicky lips bent to

the UV lights of God’s Grandeur and fear

of death without doing something great, but

in each line and word sung out from the page

that day in the middle of my existence, I sting

each bee with the spindle of fabrication and

satisfaction, burnt twigs, brindle and soporific,

I will leave this pile of burning cow shit with

my head strapped succinctly to a pike spaced

safely for a children’s crossing, drip, drip, drip-

ping with impunity, ah fuck it, let’s drink more

Among Iceland’s Greatest Dons (Repost)

Here’s a poem I posted on this date in 2017.

Across the divide, in between the dogwood
and valley green, I tasted your lips, like a
pure sugar—sweet, as the sun blistered, and
I held you in my arms, and I can smell the
water still: sensuous and sinewy, much like
this day in the North, as the light fades into
the dark, we quench our thirsts upon one
another, and sate our needs in the glen on
day, and drink from our essence, and drip
honey into the grape leaves pour greens,
and sour blend, supple friend, so moist in
the night’s air, sunk into our bound life, all
have failed to capture this moment, this
glory, but our hands grasp and lock with
unctuous sunder, belay no blunder, perhaps
we’ll lose each moment as plague eats our brains,
but rest in your bed tonight, my sweet, wonder
and life live on, no memory sanctions to one’s
attention, for it lives in spite at mere inception

 

Ain’t nothing wrong with love poems…

If you like this, check out my chapbook on Amazon full of love poems.

Dominus Terra

The worst is the money,

which shits coins into

your pockets, saturates

your already sweaty

month; sick, comforting

like breaking a bottle

against a factory wall,

draped with a flag’s

shadow, hymns of war,

stagnant poesy, called

names in the fifth grade,

refusing to stand at all,

then a suffering breath,

a collapsing mania, it’s

still here, the quiet a

song to the introvert,

passion among perverts;

please give your heart

to the meek, the weak,

the losers digging butts

out of ashtrays, bottles

half-full, half-empty;

and we sat on the roof,

after we tossed eggs at

passing cars, I never

believed it would come,

but it’s past, I’m alive

Summer’s Sucking Wisdom

What do you

think he’ll do?

 

• languish in the urbane?
• relish sane real mundane?
• trash uncomposed paramores?
• sift tacitly acrid behind doors?

 

challenges suffer manically deep

troubles hungry sanity sleep

 

baste long-lost memories

souped and sop lemmings

 

I’d like to apologize sorry to her¹

but it’s best kept in the lurch

 

evidence is bloodiest’s proof

I’m² a saturated bastard aloof

 

tomorrow’s night another crying

I’ll lay in bed and wish of dying³

 

 

 

1Mom

2I’m

3Sorry

Vellum in Video

We do nothing, exist in space,

I trace your lips, the shape

of each word, the motion,

clipping the air – between us,

supplant my revenge, arise

sweet sanctimony, sweep us

away and plant us with the

corroded batteries and coffee

grounds; alkaline, acid, acrid

and freedom, let muscles burn;

sugar ants cry out, whipping

saints, flagellates, flachette,

grinding and withered, thrones

covered in magma, purpose a

song to dying gods, so we suck

the teat, gorged: we drown, stuck

inside the body of our own filth,

crying in the foxhole, subtle

music above the horizon, wax

figures melting, as dripping tears

clean our faces, yon a violin

takes flight, busts of Greeks rolled

down hill like wheels of cheese,

but it’s only Friday; time’s illusion.