SEA OF MURDER

The fires of Heracleitus

dance their flickering steps

with legs of tongue across the crimson waves

which tower like trees of spikes.

You’ve seen the moons

that hide their faces

between the streets where crime

is but a moment’s dream,

a monkey prancing

in the aisles of supermarkets

vomiting up pricetags

with a scream of wanton hatred.

This was the end,

the wandering fen of dialogue

could not extend the avenues

which were for stewfeathers,

black flames lighting up the sky

in roaring screams of wonder.

The waves splashed high

upon the parapets

of catapulting dreams

the dolce vita song

cascading through our hearts

in bloody streams.

What we had eaten in our time

was dark and filled with terror

yet the flavors dance more lightly

on our nerves

than any fairy tales of summers

filled with icicles and apple cores.

It was still upon the treetops that we danced,

Nietzschian aristocrats of anarchy

whose crimes were but the butterflies of love

embraced in madness,

blowing kisses

to a rumbling storm of violence and beauty.

These epileptic seizures never caused the harm

that springs from monolithic orders,

and the ways were full

and bountiful with laughter,

like a flea who’d found the universe too small.

The horse whose head

had turned to bowls of cherries

juggled all your canopies

of green tomorrows

in the fiery spheres of chocolate nights.

It was here that we drank those wines

whose delicate flavors

reminded one of the kidneys of Jack the Ripper

danced upon in twilight escapades.

We were the monkey’s flickering tongues of flame

which made this dream

the laughter of nights

beyond the blind eyes

floating in the soup

of Heracleitus’ malice.

SOMETHING GREEN

Callously separated cranial passage

designed like something green

which dances and sways

in the victim’s dreams,

as to the cerebral contingent’s

dance and play,

I don’t consider it the realm of hamsters

to vomit up strange hues.

This mystery dwells in caverns

filled with conifers

and the teeth of rare sharks.

Deliberate monastic orders fall

over the influence of vaginal tics

and clitoral laughter.

Who said you were of virginal dreams?

I spread my fingers through moisture dreaming.

I laugh like the climbing pizza

thrown in the face of orchestral jazz

and find an apish grin inside your bucket.

Run into the night of grey petunias

with your ultraviolet flashlight

and gather the nectar of loves forgotten.

We are not automatic like tombstones

but spontaneous dwellers in the tops of trees

whose fingers tickle us delightfully

and run through the hair of our dreams,

guests of the sweet-brained monkeys

whose mischief dances like volcanoes

between our pulsating thighs.

AWAKENED FROM THE SLEEP OF REASON

I wandered like a cantalope

rolling through the mossy fur

of a three-toed sloth.

Inside these strange facades

I found the appetite

for elegant petunias

and somberly danced with the cardboard image

of giraffes in flight.

It was a nightmare sewn together

from the scraps of your elevated slippers

which adorned the feet of a calamitous hippopotamus.

He smoothly removed

the whitened moles

from the bottle caps

of this elevated train car.

When all this ceased to amaze,

I leapt into our first-hand carriage

and laughed like a leopard

with multiple heads

developing those systems of chaos and love.

It was here that the potpourri

of science

overthrew its own calumniated discipline

and danced upon razor blades

to the hot horns of a hellish debacle.

We never wondered why

this should not be,

but rather spilled the wine

in ravenous drips

down the elephantine caverns

of flowery, anal throats.

THE FORTEAN OCTOPUS HEALED

The ostrich and hyena pull my plow

over a seething landscape

dripping with the blood of fresh petunias,

the amber fluid from the otter’s lobe.

Not yoked;

they would not tolerate

such slivered fasts

and monkish dripping eyes.

They ran through the sea of hands,

applauding, pickled fingers,

aureoles of all the flying cats

with purple tongues entangled

in the silver web

of conundrum.

I never sought to turn

such fertile wonder

into grey and ebbing fossils

clicking softly through the tepid afternoon.

What dreams may come

will never be for corpses

or the dreary ghosts

who wail and whine

the losses of pathetic mice.

Indeed, we dance as in the limpid wine

of majestic octopi

who squirt serial intoxication

through the eyes of grand delinquents,

those whose quaking crimes

send the quivering teeth of sharks

into the entrails of a cop.

What serial delights!

A feast upon the squirming tentacles of joy,

a wild debauch

that flows majestic

like the river of mad eyes,

the febrile horn of otter heat

and my own beloved owl’s libido.

A NIGHT DISTINCT AND WONDERFUL

The razor sharp moon sliced the sky,

dripping through forests of hands.

Screaming, we danced

through the showers of blood,

these ostrich dreams which ran

through the labyrinthine rivers

of elephant wine.

Was it I who sang the arias of doom

or did the sky

fling off its shroud

and skip in naked wonder

over landscapes

ripe with grey petunias

and vermillion ottomans

on which the snails of verdant passion

raised their horns,

a toast to fiery lust?

When I embraced your seething storm,

the undulating flesh

of a thousand dancing mermaids,

you turned and laughed

at the algebraic method

with which the pompous towers

had turned our platypus dreams

into the calculations

of a flattened scheme.

But what could stop

our serpentine dance

of tangle vines

of dripping, colored foxes,

juicier than the daring escapades

of a strangely simian outlaw,

this man whose razor

was the laughter of the moon in heat

and whose chorus

was a howling ocelot

jumping from the treetops

toward the stars?

THE RUINS OF THE WESTERN DREAM

Aluminum wastrels crinkle

into watery columns

of amber beams,

your silver jade elephants followed

into the tunnel of grey slippers.

It’s times like this

I wonder why

the dance of peacocks

so resembles

a table of knives

devouring the children of grief

who fly through wombat jungles

with their hair aglow and flowing

in orange and purple cataracts.

We’ve seen this image dancing

through the streets

of Berlin

with abandoned chocolate cantaloupes

and the empress of spikes

whose navel is

the lime covered magic

of a giraffe in heat

blowing trumpet tunes through the cataracts

of marinated elephants.

I had just seen this dream

inside your ear

licking the walls

as an army of single-footed octopi

rolled down the river of Paris

in tuxedoes shaped out of crab shells

and hats of marinated lice.

I would have eaten this delight

if not for the aurora borealis

piercing through my brain

with tunes of unfit monkey bars.

IN THE JUNGLE REVOLT LIES DREAMING

I never knew how the screaming of doves

could follow you through a whirlpool of dessicated albumen

like the dancing feet of a jackal in heat

whose bloodied face dreamed of delectable foundations of purple hands

from which hung the silver cross of Ardennes,

home to the elephants’ jazz club

where the merry dismemberment of senators was a theme for blowing hot.

Cats dug the mountainside wine casks with flowing streams of stars

and wombats which circled the afternoon fair of delights.

“Death to the pigs!” screamed a solo ferris wheel collapsing like a tinker toy façade

upon the heads of utterly despicable weapons poised like green gorillas without hope.

TWO POEMS

PIERCED ARMOR

As if this dream

were a prison,

I wander back and forth,

intoxicated, sad and falling,

falling into the colors

of your eyes

whose lights

devour my heart.

MITUS’ REVENGE

Vaginal fluids in compass

develop the delight of corpulent chaos.

Such dreams as a rat might erode

for simple populoids,

I cried like a swansong

howling in the wind,

somberly dancing in leaps

of carbuncle sauce,

such tales have fallen and devoured my madness –

key to the triangular horse of Mitus.

ALL BLUE

All blue:

The seasons containing posters of Delilah in rags

dance about theories of albumated creampuffs,

and the series of port wines

combine with my children of grief.

I don’t complain in this October heat;

the fires dance like the ostrich

who ate the capital buildings

of manifold purpose.

The storms of your love

washed the octopus

and the glimmering streams of confetti

detested the nightmarish sheep

with their purple dewclaws.

Seldom have I seen such detestable fiddles

fed to the dream lines

of undetected mettle,

all of a form so crystalline

I lost my teeth

in the battle to form liquid craters

in its corrosive surface.

Like an alligator

I swam from Atlanta

to the bean piles of New Jersey’s

southern colony of monkeys.

These creatures shifted limes

into the columns of a box of molten lava

and drank tornadoes out of boxes

of platinum digestion

like the forests of tomorrow

in a dream.

THE GENTLE SCREAM OF MY DESIRE

If I could speak with all the wild-eyed

courage of the damned,

I’d pour out tales as merry

and as sad as the heartbeat of a platypus

but I find myself dizzy

in the cool and fiery passion

flowing from your eyes.

The melting fragrance of their colors

is a source of madness

that engulfs the most severe of apes

and flings them in a swirling dance

across a floating abyss

of columbines.

I have drunk of this liquor

which flows out of your eyes

and my intoxication swirls

the worlds away

into the swinging arms

of gibbons

with hands of watermelons

and minds which dance through galaxies

of flaming ice and elegant poisons.

I do not want to lose

this ardent madness.

Where else do green wombats of desire

dance through the forest tops

with mouths of ice

and goblets full of fire?

Where else do the purple-feathered

birds throw apples from their nests

to the vagabonds who’ve turned their ears

to grazing antelopes

and thrown their collars to the winds:

No more!

And so I want forever

to ingest this fiery dawn,

the quiet, gentle storm

within your eyes

and yet I find chaotic feet

that draw me over distant landscapes,

and a mouth sewn shut

by parapets of silence

and control.

In this the heart,

grown monstrous in a storm,

explodes into a million shards

of distilled melting blue—

a monkey’s swirling tale

of pained desire.

THE REASONABLE DESTRUCTION OF THE FAMILY

The bloody reticulated abdomen

of somnambulant zebras

is not to be mistaken for

the way my mother dances

in flowing shards of pink

volcanic glass

while drinking liquid stars

and laughing at the flowers

of unknown muskrats.

I have seen days when she flows

through amber rhythms of sound

and puffs her adder tail

to the melody of bladed

peacock tails which pierce her

to the heart

to find it made of cheesecake

and fine wine.

These were the days

when all the hoary headed ostriches

reached into their bags

to find the fluids of solar wealth—

those magic monkey chips

with which the other moons of green

had made their profound philosophies

of statuesque delirium.

Had I not flowed through those legs

like the ice of contaminated fleabane,

I might have mistaken them

for the years

in which your lovely breasts

of iron and fire

had grown into the corn of Babylon

the rich grains of flowing gems,

of vibrant, radiating hair.

AND STILL I HEAR THAT MONSTROUS ROAR

(I wrote this poem upon being awakened at 6 am by the roar of chainsaws clearcutting nearby some land where I was living in a tree house)

Liquid like a cannonball

explodes into the membrane

between the trees of time

fighting for rhythms of the saw.

I wandered strangely

past these arbored gardens

full of seahorses

and trunks of treasured meals.

You never saw me,

kissed my toes

for chocolate cream and horror.

The roars were not of lions,

they drained the atmosphere of dreams

and ate away the melons of desire.

Still I danced away.

My guns were aimed

at all the tops of pyramids,

the schemes of whiskey dealers

without a wit of monkey heart

or green inside their eye.

The daze drifted away in purple fogs

and the nights I rode for miles

on mares of steel and blood.

When I opened my hand

I found the wine and music

of a distant race of monkeys,

dreamers in the hinterlands

of horror and despair.

These strange flowers screamed

from the passage of a cave

of undulating flesh,

a river filled with snakes

who danced upon a screen

of nails and ice.

The further trumpets coiled and turned,

a veritable landscape of discarded hats

and filtered minds.

From this I drank the acrid films

and shot the enemies

of clovered muskrats

and the humidors of love

without relief.

It was green inside these mountain skulls

and olived with the caracas of monkeys.

I downed their screams;

I danced the night around

in swirling galaxies

of vaginal distension.

This was my highest moment,

my defeat of undesired

obliteration of the dawn.

EROTIC INTERLUDES

The nymph of oak

forever young

kisses the serpent

of the eye.

*

Beneath the hand made of serpents

two have become one.

*

The birds of Lesbos

play the beautiful horn of the dawn

as the sun peaks over the horizon.

*

Wandering aimlessly

through the garden of desire,

I joyfully pick

the flowers of pleasure.

PASSIONATE STORM

As this storm that swirls through my mind

casts bolts of lightning

through the vast universe of my passionate flesh,

I gaze across galaxies

into the vortex

around which this storm roars,

that calm silent center that is your eye…

The agony of love rips at my brain with hungry talons releasing lunatic monsters,

strange population of dimensions of desire

that darken the sky with vast tornadoes

and weave landscapes to crazy for normal feet.

I sprout wings and take to these seething skies

in the hope that I might fly

into the vortex of your eye,

but these howling gales which twist and turn

play with me as with a butterfly.

Still I keep my face toward the source of this madness, this storm I must devour with its center, my love,

as I must be devoured by you –

the monstrous love of the unique ones…

No small, no mellow dream;

nightmarish in its vast and dark dimensions.

This is the love that I must know:

of flesh, of mind, of universes, a ravisher,

dimensions far beyond the wildest dreams of bourgeois romantics,

the most profound inducement to crime and insurrection.

THE MOST DELIGHTFUL POISONS

If you wonder why I do not run to your dream like

scathing gates of a new tomorrow,

If you wonder why I prefer the streams that run

backwards uphill like a tiger dripping through forests at dawn,

My words tumbling out in torrents of nonsense and dreamy dissembled cataracts,

It is because I have seen a dawn of assembled laziness

Actively building a playground of monkeys and dreams,

A vertical nightmare toppled among the lush fragrance

of flowers dripping with the most delightful poisons.

To sip of the petals fills the mouth with an almost fatal sweetness,

Intoxicating honeys of insurrection,

In one hand the molotov cocktail, in the other the elixir of dreams.

“Do not wait,” I was told, “do not wait for the day,

For your own dance which blows away cops brings the dawn.”

And your dreams are too mild and pale for me,

smothered in the fear of the blood that may

spill when we make the world our own.