A Thought on Death

In the mines, you live forever.

Or so I thought.
But you only live as long as you do IRL.

Swans

An army which rushes through the valley

and yet has no general.

Water sweeps lotus petals and bilge

unending to deep and ancient seas

which froth forth fishes communal

or sits below a green dune

and lifts to the sun the opalescent swans

which drift through the algae.

It is a pity I am not of water,

and do not flow but trip with the best;

nor do I lift the birds,

but wish forever that they lift me.

There is nothing of the past or future

in creeks or ponds.

Geminoid Sonata

I wish at last they'd fill my veins with silicone.

That way they'd pull back the skin
to a coral reef of rubber wire,
uncounted capillaries intertwined
like airy sponges on arterial stalks.

Maybe they'd leave me be with my backbone.

then I'd stand upright,  if I were
 so lucky as to retain
my Humerus, Geminoid pillars,
but they'd never leave my skull.

Wouldn't it be fun, standing all alone?

Angelbreath

There's the angel of death on my lover's breath,

An exotic glint, and the spark of Seth.

There's a smoking wreath come from his teeth

and a greasy tuft on his jaw beneath.

And he grins and winks with the works he inks,

with the words he says and the thoughts he thinks.

And he winks and grins, and a web he spins,

and he gropes around for shaven shins.

For him it's a dance, or some game of chance,

each of us, a step for him to advance.

Then, stuck to his heel, we ache and reel,

we long for our hearts, which he managed to steal.

But he moves along, while he whistles a song,

and he cannot be bothered by “evil” or “wrong.”

He keeps up that chin, and that magical grin,

And he deals in seduction, but never in sin.

The Duke of Fife

Nibbling Stilton

Just for the protein--

Counting on quarters,

And praying for protean

Numbers on every Teller receipt.

Smells like defeat.

I remember

Ten-pounda-month

Crack an egg on some bread,

And today you are fed.

Smoking weed from the sofa cracks,

And writing like hacks.

The Duke of Fife

Watched from his frame,

Demure, as my thin,

Pale thumbs flipped a skin

Over dry, dead tobacco flakes,

To ease my belly-aches.

I left

For a reason.
The Duke never wept.

He watched as I slept.

He laughed when I woke,

And was still broke.

No One Lives Here Now

This is not the farmer's house

That we hid in through the night.

Perhaps it was, but no one lives here now.

A First Date

Monday: routinely the weekday in question

fills me with loathing and foul indigestion.

But not every Monday is fit for evasion--

especially not when she's in the equation.

Beneath a picture of old Pancho Villa

I supped on a bowl of sopa de tortilla,

and watched as she ate underneath quite a lotta

pictures of Emiliano Zapata--

And I felt that moment we were made for each other.
The thought bore a gasp that I managed to smother

As the connection pricked like an errant mosquito;

We both had ordered the vegetarian burrito.