Niki's Morning

And when the morning interviews the beach
To stop the sand from wanton speech
The sun, in passing, loves a lonely sea
And leaves for shores beyond its reach
Will then my time in sand remain, or flee?

Lost in Dreams

Alley through creaks and the twisted sign;
Thoroughfares tear to dress down, as the shy
Ache of seven tumbrils dread in racing, walk,
Tread in wander while vales close asunder.
And waking among twists groan as unknot
Clots of flesh and brood foundlings pounding
Gnarled through fetters and this bile that blunders
My fire in a whimper and the fuck the groan and paling.
Alley through creeps for that thwarted sigh
That vomit that seeks to veer in meek and in frightening lie.

Who are we?

We are the hollow men.
We are the sacred men.
Hallowed are our true and changing faces:
Snake-skins of a thousand consummate graces
Which grind to feign that tedious organ
Of commonplace camaraderie,
Only to parch as cheap smiles burrow
Into dreams of love and bitter matrimony
Yes, we are your chosen hollows,
And we die as we live, unmarked and fake.

Love

If I could bed the wench, would she not want to wed and wrench my will to love the lovely flower that is so only to fade into the night as fashions flow and fancy takes flight?

The sky is leaden II

I came too soon last night saw her arched back
Breaking through moaning sheets, her womb probing
No sleep I thought now how thin her back was!

And do I dare?
Do I dare to stir up my strength and force a crisis?

There’s food on the stove, half-open, half-uncooked
Signs of castrated animal husbandry!
And sighs then, and I do not care anymore
But the worm still moans on I cannot sleep.

Eliot rolls in the rwed rwed sand

Let us go then, you and I

When our evening declines into that gentle sky

And dreams that swell wane with budding light;

When with blinding sight you spy the dying night,

Let us go and dwell through common streets

-

Let us scuttle backwards with mongrel feet;

And retrace the tedious steps outside of rat’s alley

Where the tired grime seeps through bones

Like toil that you have never tilled;

And then the bones are picked clean

Till the clean bones are all gone… perhaps only

To womb worms into misshapen dreams

Maybe stir up some screams for our silver screens.

-

But let us go anyway, to see this noise white

That is different either

From the rattle of a poet in red and light

Or the farce of the peasant parched in blood and might

I will show you heaven perched on a pound of platitude.