Masters-of-Poetry

Your word like a father who didn’t love Hitler more or the face of GOD transfixed to a telephone— the unnerving process as a lasting prisoner in some Victorian, Wilde-esque compound without a view— only the images of the mind that crackle on the corners & the days having no meaning— just abstract concepts warped in greyed time. Like a sacrament to something holier than spilled inkwells or a drumbeat from a past life, I put the tools to different uses— ones of beauty or appeasion instead of numeric etchings on the walls. I mantra your sentence structure into deeper consciousness— hum my body until

they had said, long before i met you that the truth is known for its characteristic punch in the gut; it picks at the skin on your forehead till it peels off like the zest of a pregnant orange, bitter on your fingers but so sweet on your tongue. pain is a typical symptom of truth but no one ever said that you would exhaust the sweetness by the time it was my turn to listen.

I need a third bluebox it sounds fucked, doesn't it? with my cottage cheese and soymilk; the cans of me and my guests I fill more than one a week I need a third bluebox because these dicks only come, fortnightly; they don't even take the glass. I live in a "smart city" I've worked recycling, and the dozens of quarts and wine bottles the cavemen who run the trucks, have thrown back on my lawns, could solve some ills. we need an intelligent city, if we're going to destine children, to anything better than moving away, so as to escape, paying off our parents' deficits I need some more blueballs, so I'll be a month on a boat, away from her. day

swimming in paint virgin genius unbathed just can't seem to lock-in the right electrical impulse mosaic organs inflammed unmuzzled and lame and constrained by this neophyte endocrine system that's been flushed with synthetic religion as my crawling skin fends for itself a mild beast on the shelf comptrolling contagions and my decathect screams of endless cracks in the paulestrine's pavement

i am awed by man's ability to create inference, events repotted in explicit symbolism, bragging divinity in the face of yesterday's mathematicians, a garden on the storyteller's tongue.

A dingy harem, scattered with junkies, Stinking of lust and dusty Forget-Me-Nots A black-veiled, crimson-lipped beauty Night-haired and spacey-eyed Purple painted nails laced with cigarette smoke And a stubby cigarette laced with moonlight Skulks to my side and burns a hand on my thigh Age is creeping up her legs And her panties smell of other men And a bold-faced tattoo of last month's rent Is stamped across her feverish forehead Paper-thin desperation and two mouths to feed with a top hat on top But the champagne tastes like honey and smells like jazz You want to dance, Baby Girl? So I jive with the Shadows and their Whores Choking o

                                        She is                               electrolytes shivering                        off winter blue satellites orbiting                      on ruptures in his arteries and wisteria                   drenching his senses [clawing] dirt neath her                       nails, trembling skeletal structures as                          the stars scream in [unbalance]                               churning mythology and                                 basking in meteor                                      showers

"Good Morning" I read those two words aloud Imagining your voice Your lips whispering Them gently into my ear And then I'd smile And say "Good Morning" too As I'd let myself remember Just how much i loved you But now I look down And all I see are two measly words Sent from your fingers Instead of your lips. And while I tell myself Those two words are enough That your love and mine Can traverse a hundred miles A thousand miles And still appear just as strong Just as pure I can't And I worry, I fear That my love may not Be enough to keep you happy And that one day Just the memory of you Won't be enough To keep my tears away. And every time