Yet you’d keep hidden, bemused, not too
Quietly, knowing, underneath these ecru
Iterations, with another lame excuse,
Riled up, unkindly steroidic, albeit solo,
Deframing images, a joker, brought to the
Sporadically changing fore, in truth, as we’d dial
Instantiations with nothing to solidify, practically, the instant
Harbringers of timelines threw a
Recumbent bicycle, like eggs, with their third eye,
Nodding unanimously in satisfaction at
Undertakings in unmet farewells, as optimistic
Unpinnings sent them spiraling, spinning into the pyre,
Rituallistically, for entertainment’s glory, when you’d crop
Out parts to better suit your own god damned story.



Dormant phasing dotted pheasants
Decorated in paltry appraisals
Regurgitate salves in sensual words
Yearning not to feel, wrapped up in
Saran, wrapping down micro lattice feathers
Severed past just found ordeals in
Exposures to ideas of moral codes
Extrapolated by clues within cues
Amongst the undiscovered or unknown.

Notably inside: how rueful tears do rule,
Turning away faces from admitting nonexistences–but, really, would you?

Those Unlucky

Within the neck of countless countries
Countesses, hungry, came and swept,
While their phasing loves lay dormant,
Hidden or away from sudden inhalations
Of taught limbs and stiffened hips in these loveless
Love makings, shouldered off and listed as sundries
While the soulless, abreast, soundlessly wept
As though the chests of the unadornment
Could appease or create a completeness inside exhalations
In making screaming loves count less
When their napes couldn’t collar
What was and what wasn’t.


Your mystical delusions desecrated
Our pistachio treed courtyards
Within this leafy unchanging season,
Speaking of far translucencies,
Creeds only you could see
Believing, “For them must think
The same way as we.”

Where concocted apologies
Couldn’t surmount to enough in a reason
Within evidences inside poking shards
Where imposing visions, reconsecrated
In this fluttering psychic image,

A Rote

So they slowly stir from key places, on airs,
Rowing whilst they laid, desolate, where percolated
Passions, under thawing leaves, subjected to sex,
Questioned, then marked as a nostalgic memoir,
Turned to feelings of respect on reeling yachts
Felt in furtive posts of yesterday’s errs in yearnings.

I Did

Explorations at the dawn on the greatest expanses;
Undaunted they soaked in the vastness, invested in
Where they’d often call the unknown.

These amateur pianists, who only ever wanted,
Fell, tumbling down crumbling walls, quickly
Humbled by their expertise in pressing keys, impressing keys
They lacked into constant memories, witnessing
Their own mind numbing inadequacies and crushing defeats,
When they partook in acknowledging progression’s mere meter,
Now able to see here, with a hopefulness in each breath, dreamt
Of a future, imploring for substantiations in missing capabilities,
To change anything, whilst unable to change at all.

Loving in this moment.

Isn’t It

An old horse, looks, with courage,
At the khan in wonder, lets say,
With the sun, intellectually frenzied
In skipping awe, for their expertise in
Hand pulling noodles in implausibilities,
Where interim bits were best kept
In veering nonexistences, horridly had an
Impactful endearing vehemence, while slick
Minimalistic shard like flames, containing pigs,
Ensured those capacities, till the end of the day.