Going down to the river darling

You  go down to the river Darling: 
The calm part, behind the old trees. 
You go in the calm of the moonshine – 
You  go where the grass blades cut 
Skin of those that willingly lie 
Here in the willow-bend. 
Where, darkling flourish, in the calm crook 
Of your waiting arms… 
I am the river Darling, I am the dark flow with 
under tides. I am calm at this juncture, 
but the river hides it's fury 
ever after here. 

Sea crushing shell

The remnants of their bodies
washing ashore in your waters--
crushed in the depths of you--
as you roll on, ever-strong.

We fought your momentum--
forwards and back and at
times ride the crest of your
emotions triumphantly.

All in vain it was, as we
fell back into the deep
of you--breaking and
flaking off into pieces.

We became smooth and
refined after many washings as
you wore us -- we would glint
in the sun when you put us on--
to only be discarded
with remnants washed away.

Tears escaped me

I read the script, it called for tears by a river 
overflowing it's banks. It had me clutching 
an old and worn and sodden teddy bear. 

It is an opening scene with little context 
given--all I had to do was cry, but tears 
escaped me. 

There was no mention of a drowning to 
make it easy, or anything, even after the 
scene--to places I flipped ahead there was 
no explanation for that frame of mind I 
was in, only a vague look of sorrow that 
always stayed close. 

There were little flashbacks throughout, 
where the audience would see another 
angle here, another angle there: a shot 
below water staring up at you, another 
of a random deer with ears up like it 
just heard someone, but there was nothing 
definite, some clues contradicting. 

I spoke in protest to this scene and its 
lack of meaning, but my only reply was 
cold water seeping into shoe. 

On the edge of forever's teacup.

It pulled then pulled me apart-- 
Black transfixed into forever--
here the standstill won't get noticed... 
at least by me: 
though you watched me fall 
into the black abyss, loosing 
all my pieces into a jumble,
I am still at the paradoxical edge
waiting for the final brew 
knowing I myself will percolate 
and the Universe will take a sip. 

Simple little man.

Simple, simple little man 
born and bred in Pakistan 
from a small world in the sun 
went to England for some fun. 
Simple, simple little man 
born and bred in Pakistan. 

As the Winter comes on by 
there's a warming of his eye 
when his desert heart could know 
warming friendship in the snow 
keep it simple, little man 
born and bred in Pakistan. 

Twinkle of the eye.

A twinkle twinkle at the bar 
as she wonders who you are 
up above you is this guy 
that would gladly bust your eye. 
A twinkle twinkle at the bar 
as she wonders who you are. 

When that oafish hunk is done 
you will sneak in for some fun 
not thinking what is wrong or right 
her twinkle twinkle made your night. 
A twinkle twinkle at the bar 
as she finds another star. 

Push away this river.

I would push away this river
that splits and pierces my side.
A crest that mounts
my shallow cliffs,
and drives a fallen branch
towards the sudden grave,
where I clutch some smooth
rocks with hands that squeeze
and move and turn to
marble white as stones
mark precipitated edge; where
swollen in the over-wash:
hands in the rinse beside
the risen banks of the
ruddy waters, their's blood
in the eye and stone in the heart.
Made that day, an ironic fool,
marking his own grave where
branches he made, broke off.

What Would I ask a Fool?

What would I ask a fool 
Under consideration's pool? 
The limping dead, the ghost, asleep -- 
wandering dread of soulful sheep. 
What of the minuscule few, 
who's dearth of reason you 
carry like a torch to the mountain top 
and turn, to those bewildered at the stop 
as if you could still go higher, 
much like the flames of the fire 
to only be quenched by the solemn tears 
of those that know beyond their years. 

Reel Hx

When the reel is playing it reforms ghost
And when a memory erased, re-rings
All the old moments you replaced, repost;

Reappear in the dusty air that clings
To those aging eyes with the glossy red
finish. You see the film, soundless she sings,

She makes the room around echo the dead;
Plainly this song was meant for only you:
The roundabout spin to the name ahead.

What of the room around this olden view?
See with peripheries the perfections edge?
I would rather wait for the reel stop, few

Are the footsteps you place from chair to wall
As you touch your lips and cherish time, so small.

Pig Latin

Truffles bring oinks -- as hard earth yields to snouts, dug up, lost to fancy French plates noses upturned by waiters for waiters...

Projectionist Manifesto

you cower in disguise and your darklight manifesto you read at the inquest -- could make a deaf man hold his ears.

Haiku: don't!

The ache hasn't you unless you let it have you: hungry, thirsty -- don't!

Haiku: feel no wait

The fuel disappeared on the long highway driving -- bird's flight, feel no wait.

Haiku: What of art?

What of this art now -- as the pleading rains fall down and sinks with the seas.

Haiku: You brush fire.

Sometimes, you brush fire
over her ear, her red hair
sparks from hand to heart.

Stop in Fredericksburg.

The skin was past the covers, 
and there was a crisp with 
the sweet and savory. 
I dug right in, first with eyes as 
well placed proportions, 
on and by tables, peaked 
my appetite aplenty. 

They watch falling flakes.

My beard is full -- the flakes are falling 
and will not melt in this weather. 
Along street routes -- I walk without walkways, 
hearing a buzzing in my ears as the blizzard 
falls on my dark shoulders. 
The cars skirt by me, quite close --
I could touch their tires if not for speed -- 
they move past me like ice in a river-thaw, 
their stare can freeze those that care, 
though it stopped freezing me long ago 
as I shake out my beard, again. 

The fire set.

I've heard the crackle and snap 
under the kettle, the fire set 
by dried twigs and small branches, 
logs layed under tarps to slowly dry -- 
new wood is too moist and green 
to take up the easy blaze: 
to burn like the old, seasoned pine. 

Haiku clearly

Lacquer our thoughts clearly 
cover all rose petal ideals 
we press into books. 

This dying land...

Farther away is now, right now 'cause then 
Could not wait for your tomorrow, morning 
Has climbed over the mountain pass, just when 
One world would think one was safe, but we cling 

To our arrogance, like a coat of soothing 
Arms that stroke the ego just like you want. 
Though I have returned, ready for touring 
The battlefield that will bring life with this font -- 

A battle of minds, so closely coinciding, want 
The war to end in their favor, though who 
Are they? Who are they with old demands, jaunt- 
ing righteously with blood on their hands? Two 

Minds have I for you, one of benevolence, do 
You know the other doesn't care: here or there, 
Seldom rare of form or ready to just die for few 
Who would break this land apart, and proudly wear 

The wreck of it like a royal family crown! Heir! 
Heir am I to your pallbearing! Where, wait, mourning? 
Mourning for who or what? You dumb snot! I care 
Not for your silly excuse for verses! So let us sing! 

Let us sing! At the top of our throats, let us rain 
typeset on the white pages, let us be with no disdain... 

Watch the flying blades.

It's like this, the hands are fast 
though with a blade extended -- 
a swifter fact is fixed, that splits 
wind like a ghost surrendering. 

Please, please hurry back and 
replace the lost blade of fact -- 
come back and finish this mess 
of business, lest the lie resume... 

Diu Nei

Let's us tarry here -- 
grab rabbit hair 
have it tufted betwixt 
each finger -- lift 
and turn over to meat 
side, pulp side, vulgar 
side. 

Forget the gentle 
rabbit now, the red one 
none watch jump now. 
Forget the tender meat 
seen more clearly now. 

Don't over sharpen your 
central blade for we cannot 
cut as easily as we should... 

We'll make the cuts slow, 
a thousand or so. 

All hail those leaping dogs of snow!

All hail those leaping dogs of snow, 
The furious mess of them! 
Hi, ho and away they go! 

Diggin' bone again as if for a gem! 
Tails, like sails above white ocean drifts 
with sniffs of sniffers saying, "ahem!" 

As they jump off sheepish cliffs, 
Into the wading furs of licy cold 
And bring up bones as if gifts. 

"Leave those there!" you scold, 
And hit hard on the nose, to show 
That it never pays to be so bold! 

All hail those leaping dogs of snow, 
With a furious mess of phlegm! 
Hi, ho and away they go -- 

Over last hills, tails behind 'em, 
Yelping far away. You find an ATM. 

Had half a mind.



The bus came and the bus left and I 

was only half on board and because of that, 

I missed my last chance. 

Opportunity is as fleeting as a leaf 
that has its last hold left to the smallest piece, 
that can still cling to the swaying branch 
that's waving by the buses window seat. 

It was you on the bus and me behind, then 

in the mirror my image reversed and 

you could finally see --
I had only half a mind for you... 

Milkyway shake. 

It's all in the preparation, 
a mixing we cannot avoid -- 
the two sets of spiral arms 
will turn together 
in the blender 
and whirl us into 
a Milkyway shake.