TADPOLE MEN
Gold fish on hot beds
so dog star rumblings
do out smooth volume
on stones or on burns.
Now feel a cold fish
beauty where sizzles
scar each star tissue
of out and out skies.
Or give way, wet fish,
for kink and clinker
to glisten while you
earn and call it day.
So lung fish lies its
tail across each eye
saving a moist tank
of sheer hell for it.
And flying fish fins
do flap so fear sent
as to skip oer mud
is flip flop and joy.
Steer true, bony fish,
a jaw held high for
a silk purse of egg
so bleeds its pencil.
Or turn, hag fish, to
look daggers on spine
in ice ink of nerves
done to a crisp tee.
It’s no use, bat fish,
drag a sunless bulb
off each biting bell
to dine on lost toe.
So slither, pearl fish,
this host of hot boils
clanks on to a dusk
now tuned to silvers.
DOUBLE YELLOW
Not for you the evening
star, nor the barbed hair
hold us aloft this gutter
in scarlit ways, the grit
on each blackening oath
trailing to a burn of fire.
Tooled high, our pool of
worm blaze and simmer
goes through all its stark
waltz of jam today, buds
of crimson sucked amid
the ducked stool, a swift
stitch combing the tangle
to a long imperious quiff.
When did each curl talk,
the railing rises given up
to a scarfield, so blown
to orange jets and laced
cocktails, its comfort rag
spilling a tempered lawn
where the technicians of
sensibility plough on in.
with clutching temper in
legions the colour of our
ribbon or lung, systems
theory with a smile, this
stain of the local to some
drum and flower of ditto.
NIGHT NIGHT
A goose bump shrinks
from high, bare places
to a stung, prone oh so
supine hem, its lounge
short of fiery loam but
tuned to fine leaves of
ouch. We’re rapt, even
as a sang rind and bark
enskies the miraculous.
So off with flits to an
inkling sulk, to glitter
for a pouring crag of
or snores. If and only
if turns a lip canopy on
its fetchingly high side.
No, that brags it most
which throws to wake
off this filching. You
are some clear day, as
the yoke singes into its
neck. Spoons chrome
to chamber lines, white
trash all but blown into
love oer the core sloth.
Now rends out to deck
its joy boy, he of craven
dances, skirts and crust
cuts of mister bombast
scooping up scars in the
scouring. Be our sleep
collar, be our iron hum
to none, done for by the
moon in gorgeous bone.
harangue, so sparkling
to the lees. Go swift to
dull, buds that oh stills
to trimmers or breaking
bounds, that optimum
slurp clasped in a pyre.
TOME
The cage rattles, it is
some other, quick fire
in ills, filling out pain
strokes through whirl
and seam. I would go
in love’s blows to your
hoping deeps, so deep
you could lose an arm
in its bindings. O sad
earth, it still gives, it
reaps that hair scarf
and unwraps its lips.
this humid spore gives
in open pool, there the
delights eclipse, smoke
in me doth reign, and
now draws fire. This
carcass is of mine, turn
sunny side up, so flush
to this plank of sun rot.
Less said, the worse, of
which the meanest part
and worth folds its very
smile. Hang an upshot,
switch on to all its light
possibilities for notes in
rogue moods. What tan
sets a face against each
bucket of scorn, a state
of hiding teeth, now to
flip in rock and park, o
gags and in committee.
Something does to a
verdant lash of chill,
to decks of colour. It
will not suffice. You
break from a snug fit,
each radiant crust, in
good tenure too, now
to vice come file away.
Shifts in wounds, proof
and soggy hurt where
love blurts out a horrid
truth. It can’t be taken
in, nor will this tie into
wealth tape. You do low
in yourself, so let down
in more flocks of talking
points, that quick and
poor tune. It’s not for
me to say. Hark, the
antique air is smiling.