flecktrum

society incised into

the bloated middle class succour mums

ambivalent to newish trends

and an elite mob

structured to risk take securities

bank bonds and play unfathomably

with invented instruments

divesting the erstwhile future

of unplucked bounties

*

sucked down

the plog-hole

ridiculed mental amusements

like st vitus' dance

st antony's fire. on phenomelogical

grounds. rendered useless

i bring the object of my reflection

closer and closer to me

until i splash into it

and drown

in wonderment

*

why does this dream

seem so important today?

my investment in it

might mature oneday into

an olivine pinprick

deep in

golf club gold hole a

prism behind the marble curtain

all new invented ways to stick the dick in

the masculine phenomenon

*

an inversion - something persian?

falafel deepfried icecream

camel hoofs might talk

on the all night box

delivering another round of newscast

unto the upper stratosphere

women's group of hair and

fingernails their tripping

into the soft skin of grapes, molasses

red wine and cheeses

*

a poor man's canute groat

goat came tobermory into

the infundibulum

don't please me send him away

they say, and blown him up

in an indescribable way pieces

of blood and schists mixd

in the sandstone doorway

to jaisalmer

and tears away in a hummbug

yesterday

like a gadfly, a speck, or nothing at all

*

gross stocks and trysts

thru a preamble to the descent

into decency - this is humanity

wiped clean off the dashboard

with a little antisemitic spray

frog golf buggies sand dunes

- they were just blown away -

all clapped out, a winked

think like thunder

on the distant lake brewery

of tomorrow's warcast

die

new year poem

the capacity he had to land knob end always up amused her
would its heat ever attain the melting point of lead?
in the chill quiet they stay alloyed together. brief spell
of rain marks the end of another year. (if
you roll the count forward as you progress, the year never ends)
the playful rascat's grating meow gets the door opened
i am holding a last few soiled eggs to my chest, reaching
out with one hand for the latch; but they slip and fall
so spills my wife's wages over the floor. i am too spent to
kneel down. This is the end of me for sure. the final sermon. Arcadia.
she might be there; the sticky one. I am bewitched by it.
she might be there - and yet hold the key. I am always looking
for it, even in dreams. The silken caress. The sauce has run out
and yet there is still food on the plate to eat. I am lonely.