12-07-2025, 02:04 AM
Lines
Simple things spangle as diamonds on trees;
the mind an octopus entrollen.
Like the weather, appropriate measures
fester the heart and pincushion loins
with beds-of-nail.
Come, invite, turn every knob
with the same locution that elects pardons and sentences.
No working-girl is too employed to dance.—
The shades of your own eyes are warnings:
between the lines, words and waves are not partings,
and panic is a Disney movie everyone's seen.
No one writes anymore; everybody thinks
that letters sent station to station draw
the very interpretations a weathervane has,
and make windmills while waiting in line.
Flight happens furiously but settles like thunder
through memories. Rattling the bones with time.
—Terror is the way of this world, like a tide
that forever warbles. While no one goes to jail
for stating the obvious or making a joke:
love—isn't a guarantee for all.
Still, the face shares its embraces
whether its reflector reddens or grits lips.
Those warbling larvae favor dreams and the melancholy
required to translate humor to mucus and back again.
Dull aching doesn't rest—sharpness dulls.
Winter is a time for cards;
changing music for young and old.
There's no theology of heart that caters to the underbelly
that thrives neither on poverty nor crime.
The private rhymes of a television and a host swell in knotted dreams:
static and flickering light are like a mentor. A salesman. A pitch. Desire:
beyond arrangement. That tinsel-flossed limb presaged.
Simple things spangle as diamonds on trees;
the mind an octopus entrollen.
Like the weather, appropriate measures
fester the heart and pincushion loins
with beds-of-nail.
Come, invite, turn every knob
with the same locution that elects pardons and sentences.
No working-girl is too employed to dance.—
The shades of your own eyes are warnings:
between the lines, words and waves are not partings,
and panic is a Disney movie everyone's seen.
No one writes anymore; everybody thinks
that letters sent station to station draw
the very interpretations a weathervane has,
and make windmills while waiting in line.
Flight happens furiously but settles like thunder
through memories. Rattling the bones with time.
—Terror is the way of this world, like a tide
that forever warbles. While no one goes to jail
for stating the obvious or making a joke:
love—isn't a guarantee for all.
Still, the face shares its embraces
whether its reflector reddens or grits lips.
Those warbling larvae favor dreams and the melancholy
required to translate humor to mucus and back again.
Dull aching doesn't rest—sharpness dulls.
Winter is a time for cards;
changing music for young and old.
There's no theology of heart that caters to the underbelly
that thrives neither on poverty nor crime.
The private rhymes of a television and a host swell in knotted dreams:
static and flickering light are like a mentor. A salesman. A pitch. Desire:
beyond arrangement. That tinsel-flossed limb presaged.