Blues wash boughs but black still keeps
in the kitchen ‘spite the lights
toasting coffee donut creams;
when bird portraits lost come ‘live,
when the slumber cinemas
play still, till they’re suddenly
breached by scents o’ cinnamon
& the neon digit 3.
Walk across the sweating grass,
through the chilly wind o’ glass—
soon skies take off beauty masks.
Though I wrench you off your tree,
‘least I get to feel your flesh…?
No, that’s not the way to treat
sauce that grows right off the stem.
Itch my nose with pepper smells,
spread your veins all over me.
I need sap mo’ than all elms
—I’m the 1 who’s looking green.
Rain just gives you free refreshments,
zephyrs make you dance so festive
—tastes will linger like a fresh mint.
Ripples in my glass o’ tea,
how I could forever gaze
& forget society,
live my perfect holidays,
breed my perfect memories,
just to laugh into my face
‘bout the myth eternity.
O, tart tea, give me a break.
I try gathering all your rings,
but they just slip down the sink,
followed soon by mo’ ear rings.
April is the coolest month1,
breeding flies & leaking oil.
¡Plastic stomachs’ filthy fluff!
¡Mattresses with ripped-up coils!
Here the seagulls sing their squawks
through the acid lemon rain
over rusty concrete blocks
with glass shards & worthless change.
Spread your arms, feel all the brine,
bang your heads while ravens cry,
«HURRY UP PLEASE IT IS TIME.»
Rainbows spread its fingers through
granite gray & silver liquid
crystal screens that always plume
in the rain that makes it fidget.
Should I splash my feet in you?
Does it feel like smacks or pets?
Looks as if you always snooze,
slowly swaying white light flecks.
Puddles never make me frown,
always soothe me with their sounds—
in their love I want to drown.
Is that chocolate syrup splayed?
Spread the fluffy iris yolk,
taste the ashes in the rain,
smashing heart ribs with 1 stroke.
I remember still your warmth,
stilled by runny April sundown,
when imaginations swarm,
when again I lose my grounds.
Still you leave your rusty stains
on my mug, which won’t go ‘way
—last month’s taste as yet remains.
Bloody eye o’ Zero, were
I as steadfast as thou aren’t
in your purple milky blur,
my unbeatable broken heart,
sickle cutting through the leaves,
cut through by our shadows, yet
that don’t mold your curdled cheese—
not a clot: your veins stay fed.
I arrived each hour last night
—or this morn—so that I might
see you flush, but you were pale white.
Some will say you hide the sun;
I say that the sun hides you.
Clean as cream or stained with mud,
mixed with every hue o’ blue,
you find comfy every season,
mixing with both sun & rain;
bubble me from earthly treason:
pillow me in dreams away.
Then the billows all turn gray,
lullabies turn into shakes—
1 last thunder ‘fore my wake.
