And we were of the solecisms deemed Souls
Throughout the brinks of bluebell banalities
Amidst the delusions, wielded with a touch of foal,
Rang! O Rang those involutions of azure cuckolds
Bereft! O Left were only orby hours fencing fatalities
Of wist for we of the solecisms deemed Souls.

Gracile graves spackel the Nocturne’s leonine lulls
With meteors dipping like freckles into streetside neutralities
For us to pluck amidst delusions, wielded with a touch of foal,
Dreamt. It was dreamt that valedictions had soothed all
Flown, It was known to be flapped along aviaries with finality
As winged wist for we of the solecisms deemed Souls
From the doves drooping as snowflake vassals in colds
Consonant with the last irenic sophism to issue from regality;
The delusion admidst which bedtides the touch of a foal.

In all the gossamer gowns of “Goodbyeâ€

There are some syllabic collisions
That talk of love can’t help but kowtow before.
There are giggles in gaffers we’d known to be
Spent on Sunflower bellies
For swivel-tick gems
Gyrating throughout the breeze-vouched
Sentiments of You and I,
All wasted when reality
Comes home to roost in Babelfish brews of conversant
Distraction,
For the gaudy grifters
Were never more than soul sifters
And sweat drifters, with the
Spent shell even managing the skips to
Humming hearts nestled in sunspots
Till morning unfurls pistil-pillows that only those
high-brow’d Angels
Kept from your moonsunk cheek.

And when Hummingbirds Wake,
The Sunspots trounce rebirth along yielding easels,
Done-up mortally under succor-scents instilling clemence
Inside another lonely night,
And punches of poesy with punctual undertones never knuckled rivets in your malice,
Or called kisses a kind affair,
Preferring to stay Chasing happily the poniard’s coursing kinetics,
And all the potential energy within as it hung over marble appendages,
Ready to show me how much you and death got along.

There are severed heads
Stashed behind maple obelisks
For those who can’t stomach the allegory
(goats without horns while blood flowers drink the hummingbird)
Personally, I would steal away a bit of forgettable meaning,
As all we’ve ever known is the indelible stamps
Of timeless truths.

And,
I never knew crabs could curtsy-
Till one nipped at my toes
And told me I tasted too human to trifle with,
Setting off with blind bluegills across the silicon fates,
But bowing like bourbon before the tickled heavens
Hanging hollow and wholesome beneath all we'd Ever asked for,
Wriggling like bare feet beneath the echoed summer Solitude
You seem to think I Need.

Ah! Pelagic Purveyor,
Amidst the sun sloshed scenes
Of fluid lute’s prism player,
With pick of spectrum licked wings,
Plucked of wayfarer
Atop rim Sounds of Requiem,
Where sands are but mirrors
Refracting rainbows upon an onlooking dream.

I am the will o the whim o the wisp
Left longing of lark aloft lovers’ lisp,
As groom blushes ‘way dark ‘ere sun’s simpering hiss,
And coos tussle through hearts for right to stem longing lips,
For I smock the kills of prim love on sweet crisp
Tides of minced morns, when wisp’s whims hung twixt,
As though sweet was the morrow on which flees my bliss.

So flies the affidavit of darkness;
With coiling concessions of miasmal exhalations
Brought from panoplies of parlous palliations
Milking moonsweat ‘ere auricular scythe’s ministrations,
One felonious fidget flitting across the fathomed farthings
Of old fickle Felicity, Promethean in her rope-wrought writhings
And regal in spite the hope-taught tidings
From those inveterate ventricles’ pulse-bound biding.

Join me,
Let us pray for the lost sunfish.

You’ve all noted the gurgles,
Partook in scented statements of petal-speak
Rigored aft the sputter and whir of
Harpoon spool.

Bubbles squelched
Tulip types into the winsome
Mornings,
And yet not a one
Recalls the fragrance
Our friend fish chose for
Her dying moments.

Asphodel,
It seems fitting
That from my estuaries
Would rise the scarlet rimmed
Orbs of resigned sighs,
Poesy
Petals plucked from stiff tongues
And pupils confessing with
An alacrity held to scriptures
Of Thanatology, whose pages flick
with every lid’s shudder afore
Stream-sifted sunbeam's
Cease.

Now,
Join Me
Brother brook, sister solstice
Sing for me
Gnarled nooks and matron mortise
Pray with me
Coven cooks of painted poultice
Repeat after Me:

Breathe deep the dross of calamity,
The fight is lost
The wist is won
Sleep sweet unto nectars of vanity,
The night rose talks
Without the sun
Come bow for Mammon's lot of insanity,
The moonlit frost
Has dubbed us done
Quaff now the draught of Humanity.

('Mother Nature's a Whore, said the shotgun to the head')

There's something like dynamo in the trifecta of flesh.
Panoramas, hurlyburlies, shingled bits of sterling cosmos.
No, god no, let the anitpode rest, my god, let not the torrents of redusted amalgamations, the memorycatchers wove like a spidersilk with the feathers of long forgotten comet-kills cavorting along the alleyways.
I swallow hard, it's indicative of understanding.
I speak slowly, it's the diction of wisdom.
I know nothing next to the Worldly irreality of lilting landmines that hide themselves under your nubian nose.
But I swallow hard, like I understand.
That's the important thing, to pretend to extricate the nuances of figment farceurs with baby teeth and unconditional giggles pressing stubbs of adorability against a nose that was so moved by these gambits it kept crouched in form, memorandum of the perfection of children.

I like to imagine you sneezing.
Every feature vivacious, mollified in its exertion.
Did you know that souls only speak in sneezes?
Those .234556 seconds you're unconscious, those rocking brainbans, colliding consciousnesses, colloquialized envy ("God bless you, oh sinner, god bless you who touched soul, may god save you for becoming Real, for forgeting reality").
I now know the soulful have seasonal allergies, and that Flonase is robbing the world of all sense.
Please sneeze, please speak, we need your soul.
Give us your soul.