Thornapple Loch

I pursed pebbles at the banks

of the marsh of my youth

with radio-clasique, 

lulling of love could loom

In time,

In tow

I'd neume:

Solitary waste flies with Surinam toads

onto brassy vines of ebbs and flows,

Flow My Tears

onto webbed walls of plume. 

fore:

the trumpet sounds in the new moon.

Sew my years

through muddled digits of paste

fore: 

my murky greens have scantly skimmed embrace.

cicadas dance chaconnes 

but die off as songs

negate:

locusts fly follies to never see straight

and frogs eat them up

but her-flies do sinew 

BAIT.

I string:

boorish me a boat

and I'll lay three sheets to wind

Holystone and empty rock

will float in solemn solidity to sin. 

and:

on some small windfall that I receive a breeze,

I'll chance be there when a willow comes to walk. 

fore:

muffled sounds of love and all it's antiquities

are risen too seldom from the Thornapple loch

The Turning Points of Lava Soap

tell me how your day was hun,

soak it's bread in Swallow the Sun's

sink.

I think,

through chirps that you would/should

creak the cracks behind you closed,

and maul inside your mocs to cope

Use the fucking Lava Soap.

damn the birds that told

how it hammers at my soul.

it has sulked since I sat you adieu

next to a disheveled, rusty, outlet screw,

plastered on the perch.

babe, I prepared your stomach lurch

its sap to be sung

that,

you sold my sweet potatoes to ur tongue

mallow to ur skin.

butt,

Cold and of the can,

it is the sucking sin.

I can Remember it for you Wholesale

On my way to Lacuna,
Inc.
We were
We had
We blur..........
A passerby,
A vulcan princess,
perchance 'forgave
my mind a stir.
or
circusy circuits
if YOU prefer.

she showed

frenetic phantoms
of your wholesale
texts.

not meant for me
but, my android (which, I must say is mighty.)
undersexed.

and she said

I'm like a comic book dear,
my whites taunt.

and my smokes, they haunt
as I only serve

To feed the fire.
and to leave desire.

in the hearts of young chaps.
or gnats.

Which is what reMINDED
me of you
when I gazed the super 8 sign.

of how you wish I was a "mine"
and youuuuwish you had my emeralds and rubies....
if only they made rechargeable ruffies.

for

My heart is NOT lackadaisical
it LACKS,

and I wish I could come down that rope
and I wish we could smoke us some dope

but I can't I CAN'T I CANNNNNNNNN'T, moon.

as we sit on the curb please concur
that my quirks
my curves are NOT yours.

and

as pain rains, as pang pours
molten,
I hope you heed
that the past hasten
are not
monarchs,
or bishops
or even saints for that matter.
they are calamitous tatter
that have srambled my brains
and wielded warm butter in
my veins.

thus, I've forgotten our perfunctory
past.

sadly though, true.
I cannot even ante up
an androidian adieu.