Such A Pretty Line

such a pretty line.

we played at breast

eyes that drew sin

spoke in smoke

 breath of the divine.

2 months for one man made deity.

2 months for one man made deity.




Long,
long,
brief eclipse on
2 months for one man, made deity.
pared date,
 not saddled
with accuracy.

 I lick your lost lips.
Long

 & bring fragrant night.
Bring
men who
 are 
with sweet eyes of firelight.

Before Sun Fall

before sun fall

swathed in the silver

of  a gulf

I return

where the copper

of your dancing form

lit the starry spring nights

and then  coffee totting

languid Baldwin imago

I do believe you smoke too much

though I’ll not know

the smooth and tumble

of  the seed

we should have sent

on it’s way

past  storms.

Post Office

atoms to view

the ends of creation

,sighs to blow away galaxy

 and breaths that toll  castles.

South

past  uncle’s old mine

carved even deeper

than the  disused road

run into  bank.

sunglasses look rainbow light

over single house

lunch cut- a variation on an old story

lunch cut/not nakeyed/birdsong drowned a whirring mind/ no fatalities/ coffee spelt with out a drop and a silen/ says I am home

spiders should be seen and not curd

for k

three men

in dentist’s chair

 await a specialist

who brylcreams

 his hair.

the girl’s little octopus

buffs their toes,

with his

 most iridescent

 catwalk pose

 she  inhales  smoke,

via doll  house chimney,

an eye full of squares.

day elongates

stretching closer

to hear the mopoke

call her down

from the starry stairs.

a being of 130 yrs

who is incredibly beautiful

Senses Uncensored

tap let run slow

into a bucket of
white
water splash
sound light
at play
thin shadow
bright tin.

Joe Blake: First Among Many

The steroidal sturdy tonkas

tip tow dust

over the plastic toxicity of

soured yellow

and death ‘s mascot

is a sticky licky tongued

row of incisors;

raiding aorta of terrain.

A sharp turn

reveals a road wallowing in wattle

I trudge in words

 mired in sun drenched

 misery

like  Yorke at a

seaside holiday,

Camp,

in Surrey.

Upwind from the feral  deer

and their wild antlers

I curse ,

a revisionist conservationist,

until blessed

by spider strung pine

dancing its loose precision

in my gobsmacked eye.

Enter enchanted sing singing

lunch cut
not naked
half key
birdsong
drowns
in the depth of drums
 and the  dark 
feels sound, stark

like coffee on your breath
the last time
we felt something
through the cotton wool 
of my mind
and your secrecy
a book of the dead
written ahead
of thyme