a fire roars in foreign white ink a familiar name, no not familiar a bone-inlaid key paws open the heavy vault door one green eye one red eye laid over the mountain ascent three deer-blood lips three fir tongues, teeth cast like needles over the valley the temple the far-off glacial scar like oxen yolked their gray pupils pull through fragile forests of madness, intensity at least i think so and that counts for something no one's mad at me i'm famous and very rich and remain lazy with no guilt upon closer inspection: a mystic hand-in-paw with a brown dog 9 clay pots, they're dancing near prayer, spontaneous music of the weald.
It was late last night the dog was speaking of me,
and the gulls speaking of me, out over the field.
You were drawing water from the tap in the kitchen
and a moth was speaking of me, beating for light.
Outdoors was a blankness peopled with black angles;
waiting for the water you caught your own glance.
My eyebrows bustled, you submersed in my dressed;
then you were speaking of me, just a word, in response.
All the dogs in America have sisters of their own,
all the birds have sisters, out on the highway.
Moths have moths for sisters, beating out for light,
and I am speaking of you here, to everyone I meet.
Source: Darcy, Ailbhe. Imaginary Menagerie. Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books, 2011, p. 31.
Wikipedia Poem, No. 939
actually exists, actually exists
actually lives statements us with joy.
and where deep in terminological.
for us a sense of being associated.
prompted to slip in a scene taking longingly of
the being not a bees where deep
in favor of sun lovecraft: a scene taste of
solar energy, us to slip into a meditation.
us with joy. and where deconstruct or reconstruct
or anam cara, which demeanor liquid with joy.
and starhawk. it emerges from taste
of essence in favor of the being place
deep in terminology forms, forms
forms, forms, forms, forms
forms, forms, forms
These dogs are insightful
They badger up and down
I write useful poems
About 50 caliber shells
And the 7mm Lefaucheux
Rusting in Ici Repose
I know a girl who
Bleeds on the mall
Why must the music
Be so loud?
Wikipedia Poem, No. 917
repetition of natural objects
through cantilevered strips of private change
and salt religion
drawn to demon serials
it’s like all people are afraid of nature
object not a thorough repetition
it’s like a feather or a penthouse
the world reinvents the word then image
i’ve always been drawn to relaxation
it’s like empathy in motion
so you create description
slow motion described by real work
casino salt lick religious relaxation of nature
object of repetition
who’s driving? private description
it’s like a feather a penthouse
luck appears as a 60-foot-tall demon
its cantilevered private breath
describing change charge and nature
this life is not theater
though maybe the next