princeless

the girl with a face
that's princeless
showed up with calvary
in moon-beams

the ode, swarms
colorful with pink
and red roses
clothed the seams

I watched from the cold
and asked for a cigarette
everyone fights it
in the old

the recycling truck
picked me up
and made me new again
before supper

the gangs on motorcycles
gave me twenties for the club
the recycling truck
road me on the back
to see her princeless

this girl

I saw a picture
hither though
with a tincture
in flavorless flow

the white liquid
of white-out
dotting stars
in the night

her face gently
sparkled
clothed in black
in starless bright

the curling iron
sat and burned
a dotted line
in Sir Byron's arms

the scattered words
of limitless poems
opened together
and I saw the words
tethered together
in infinite prose

a million songs
come together

a million longing
caravans, strung together
with hemp, and rope
bind the starving

again I sat on an endless hiway
and she picked me up with my bags
and we road to the stop
red signs everywhere
stolen together
in a million songs

marie

the sun rose
opened it's petals
in a thousand tails
around the pose

when the sun lifts up
and rays fall delicately
in the serious cup
and baying hounds relatively
close

I saw her eyes
open and rise
in a film

and sterling roses
close in ties
stunning and bright
open and pose

I saw her eyes
and blushed
like a child
in the playgroud

when the nets
catch the bees
and we swing along
on our knees

the end of the book
came to a close
in a thousand eyes
in paper thin and slight

I watched her hips
from the stands
sway, and tip
like a weapon in the night

room

the cool morning
woke in spiraling dawns
I watched from a cool
hiway

the purse opened up
in swift movements
and liars
swallowed a whole feather
belonging wallowed up
in the tiles

hell

the poor moon looked up
and an angry god
looked over my shoulder
into the lights of my eyes

I sat peacefully on a green lawn
the sky was lit with black
and the grass scorched
I saw an eternal flame in red

infinite pain
all you have to do is ask

the white mystic

a man with golden flaxen hair
walks with mighty breathless air
and soundless hooves from freshest snow
under the mooney glow he stares

and on his mighty stamping steed
he climbs up mountains of golden sand
and remembers stories in ancient words
these ancient people never heard

with books of leather bind he writes
with sea-born ink, and quill in hand
a pouch of yeast to make the leavened bread
while others in their hovels sleep

the smokes did rise and in their hovels they do weep
these people with their glory and their leagues
with a feathered quill he does write
with all his glory and his might

intro-spection

my eyes are my own
in a twisted wilderness
sworn to tantrums
of emotion
swarming up from the ground

I watched from a tower
as cool winds embraced
the guitar
of a twilight
like an unknown lyre

my voice is my own
and the swirling books
of an endless night
become patronage

I wander, stricken
swallowed up by trees
towering in tablets
learning me