POEM ACJ-1411:

By what quandary 
In the pale of your eye 
Turns my quizzes into 
Lullabies, rings, on droplets 
Of water lilies tumbling? 
Your moonlight lisp 
Is mercy stuttering 
On love’s abandoned wings. 
I am through 
With stumbling, 
My feet are fluttering, 
The milk on my moustache 
Has gone to cream, 
And these are the dreams 
That require less numbing 
To blow the nose I’m thumbing. 
(or so it seems). Dust rises in 
The tailwinds, then falls 
By its own weight, sneezing 
Out what breezes it were forced 
To negotiate in the rain. 
What treason exists 
It freezes, the rest it rushes to 
Uttering what it pleases.

The next 3 ‘poems’ are a portion of my Lazy Poet Stew:

1)-She was never a rose in fine clothes, more like a rogue in vogue whose cloak and daggers strike repose and for whom it may be supposed is possessed of derision and God only knows and to whom siren wails are customized religion and sandstone the diamonds still gripped in her throes. She bathed in bloodstains that seeped from the drains of Spain, as from a spigot. A bigot with words, I’ll admit it. And I a pigeon toe, batting for my chirping cricket and finding my clothes in the thicket.

2)-They have fathomed that to fail is just if the bank goes bust and if enough confusion is thrown at us before the cage is opened and out leaps, startled, the addled blade in the shoulder blades thrust. At this stage, dooms-dayers, nay -sayers, and riders of the purple sage, who chafe at charges against the winds while smearing their blood across the range, folded like leaves by the rushes on the page and by rouge, pinafores and damp face blushes, mutual white hot kisses, manually, for trysts such as this is (where graveyard camels hide in the mists of oblivion, straining the wrists of the cupped hands of Christmas).


She knows that your time is due 
This is upsetting her, 
So she’s upsetting you. 
That’s what they do 
When the goose has lost 
The house and shoe. 
Stay loose and bake, 
In your own stew, 
Shake if you must. 
Stay within your 
Sauce, take the sack 
But avoid the loss 
Otherwise, you’ll quibble 
(and ‘incidentally’, floss). 
Don’t count the crumbs 
From the bread you break, 
And neither drool nor dribble 
What trees absorb your hanging moss, 
And in whose sap the veins 
Of birches bleed, whose 
Sticky hourglass of moments 
Passed now display a 
Feast of centipedes 
(frozen, if not flaked 
in a critical moss perhaps). 
Avoid the dull of dingy raps 
Spare yourself the cost, 
Which stammer out 
Instructions that stale before 
They rinse, that pale before 
They ride the pony’s they 
Never quite convince, that 
Hammer fists and their 
Limber digits into slaps 
Of invective and its gloss 
And its scars on the wrist, 
And the pus of the 
Wound it taps, and 
Turns to renegade snaps 
Which shelter us from loss. 
This we will admit: 
Eat well, get your sleep:
If it came upon the midnight clear 
Then it arrived here just as deep, 
Like the sediment which 
Settles on lobster traps, 
Crusted shells and grit. 
I’ve seen more crap 
..than I can stand 
So I write and wait, in loose pyjamas 
..watching the tide roll, 
the ripples enunciate. 
Past the ampersands 
and commas, 
..punctuating the moment 
Before it gets too late. 
The lines are blurred as the lines are drawn, 
I step aside as spawn. One, broken hearted 
(by what they heard), 
The other huffing because they got outsmarted 
By the ceramic Moors on the lawn, 
Who finish the indexes others have started 
A step before they’re gone, 
(like Astaire tapping out 
The winds of fate 
Who howl because their 
Vowels are slurred). 
And whose whispering takes its toll 
On the tall sails which on high waves call 
Towards what wilderness this is. 
METAMORPHESIS: In whose endorphins sit,
The sum of what I make of it.


Our eyes were as big as our tears 
I index fingered the ozone 
While my assets were poked in arrears. 
Tore a hole in a whole new reality 
Rode the lease out on a principality, 
A rogue’s own, complete with spears. 
That taxed the wine stains on my bib 
and in tribute ate my salary, 
for armaments and settlements 
that needed infusions of dabble 
and scratch, and all the money 
I made on my watch. 
At best, 
This exercise in dominance 
Drew lines in the sands 
that raised its rum towards 
what pranced like gravel on the 
Shoulders of prominence, so seismic, and 
of such a hard way to travel, 
So like splattered tattoos quivering 
in the jellied moulds of 
Love’s shattered weary arms. 
And why is your mother hovering 
Above the flag pole with her demands? 
Watching her hair unravel, 
while smothering, 
what she can’t outsource 
to foreign lands. 
..Compliments! You are 
Our millionth customer Sir! 
The rest is now a blur, 
my shoelaces I see now more than 
my past , they said it wouldn’t 
Last, the engine out-gassed, the 
sails out-winded in places. So I’d 
have to concur. No one knew 
What to make of her 
..whose shallows sank the war torn
Reduced to bunnies boiling 
in the bath, 
..Sane anvils 
striking out the rhythms 
from this Sibyl’s 
demon wrath. 
Who live outside their graces, 
Who fly beneath the masts. 
Storks on bended knee 
confess to nothing, 
Hard bastards they are. 
Meanwhile I’m harassed. 
We break a house in two 
Like breaking into a house. 
Sealing it with a wrecking 
Crew, and a ball and chain
Which resembles you.

With the loose coins in your hand 
After spending all of Pandora’s bucks. 
You’ve altered the time band with your 
Acid, which has turned my tides into reflux. 
Otherwise it’s quite tacit, the wake between 
The eras and what it took to pass it. Swing 
By, if your rope can reach me, while I swan 
Around in my pond of tears, just leave your 
Foetus by the lake, leave the breadcrumbs that 
Marked your arrival with the mice willing 
To carry the bread they break, but make 
No mistake: These are the stunted willows 
Which cry out to the whispered stars: ‘Send 
Mars!’ And hurry before they snap the tendrils 
of the pencils in their graphite flow, what fictions 
and numbers hurl themselves beneath the scribbles 
of what fingers grab it, scarring it into the shape 
a halo takes, right before you stab it. Say a mound 
of mystery appears and with opinion forms a question, 
suppose I strangle you with your own shoes and call 
it an act of passion? What if all of your scented pillows 
were only mean acts of self satisfaction, which can only 
permit what weathers are forecast by the grin that is ripped 
from the grip of your fashion? Stockings, because those, 
would bury you beneath the stench in your nose, sort of 
‘French’, like finding a snail on the edge of the bench 
while fingering your way past hose, 
That time in your least favourite park, the one you got fucked 
in, once in the grope of dark. Once, I got sucked in. A cavalier, 
..a rickshaw without a charioteer, or a pot to piss in, standing tall nonetheless, 
‘cause I was there. These trifles we exceed more with our courage 
Than the wounds that bleed through our dress. And in this we bless 
ourselves, to extract more as we resist the less, which subtracts 
more than it caresses , and which addresses more than it dismisses. 
(In case it blitzes, more than it presses). I feel like I’m running 
in porridge, like in a swarming field, beyond caring. 
..On the bitter outskirts of the forest, in a desperate search for an elusive source, 
Of the wrangler who steals my force. I am conclusive, outsourced, daring 
..my doubts, trying to factor my vectors out, 
As the quarrels remain intrusive. 
With the jingle jangle morning now throttled 
By your embrace. Please give up what remains of your 
Chase. Before the ace in your line-up loses his bottle and his assemblage 
unravel to reveal its face, while instruction is still infusive. 
..A beer is still strong without lime. TURN YOURSELF IN, WHILE


Also you, 
Holding your breath while 
I plead my case. 
What know I of human race? 
An Alien I, Who knew 
Orion when he was a burlesque 
Queen, slumming and calling 
It research. Who correlated 
Cleopatra with her dressage, 
..most ‘bridle’ calls 
Rehearsed. Who bribed 
Orestes when he had arthritic 
Wits and only arrested apologies. 
..What need I of 
eulogies? I carry hemlock, shamrocks 
punk rock, debit, so my hymns are 
locked with Socrates. My weaknesses 
are well versed by sagging branches 
On erstwhile trees their ash bark 
Blanching, a table somewhere 
Missing a leg, though its arms 
Come out right in the counting. 
My mounting 
horses are stable, though 
not all ‘veggie’, 
..My bats are all loud, though 
None are called ‘Reggie’ 
And the fables I wrap my 
Virgins in have fibres 
that reinforce, 
their virtues wrapped in sable 
before their touch disperses, 
before it gets too heavy. 
They sit now to eat at table. 
The napkins and the menu 
Are set and the rest we haven’t 
Got to yet. And my pills 
are making me edgy, competing 
with me for my verses. 
the glint of candlelight, 
..the red checkered wine, 
the compromise of night, 
Makes gamblers of lovers 
Before they bet, as it makes 
The sheets they shag on, 
Assert themselves with sweat. 
(I’m conservative, my mattress,
Has to always have the tag on).


We interrupt this portion of our pity 
To bring you this news from the city: 
Back to the country is back to death! 
While the dying steal what’s left to deal.
Our yeasts and potatoes have quarrelled with rain 
And been forsaken by the beasts 
That slayed them, while politicians 
Redefine the meaning of grain. 
And corn on the cob, some say now 
Sobbing, takes less time to cook 
Than it does to explain. 
With dice is how we played the crease, 
That turned us into walking stiffs 
Who in the midst of stumbling 
Gravitate to the edge of cliffs, 
Where unless the Eagles take 
Compassion, we break our hearts 
on the stones they dash on, moulting 
the tarred feathers borrowed from 
our fathers, whose blues licks 
Cracked the tumblers with riffs 
that squeezed the lightning 
from their squalor. 
..Clutching at a fist of straws 
..as the lungs leap out to holler: 
BEFORE THEY CEASE ! I am frozen 
In this chosen womb and in this room 
I call a truce. I barrelled my way through 
With my ass on fire, if lost I’ll find another 
Ruse. These knuckles are kept loose 
and lean, until I retire 
and catch up to my peace. 
My options myopic inside a womb 
Where I keep my spleen, my self-abuse
And harbingers of doom.

And finally, a poem , in the spirit of political correctness for our deaf friends:

AS WELL??!!!!