"...your muscles are an equal wisdom, that's how I will feel you tonight And yet we enclose this inside a box for fear the earth will walk away from us in disgust at our transformations..."…

The cloaked elan of a swerve, it took moon curve, foundational blue in blue, a swarm of swell, cantankerings of elation, not a personality to be seen on a wide tabularity. All that is vertigo is not cathedryllic, this numen is too vexed for spirit.



It will not be so for demons' voice hover low. This turn full of words lasts as long as the dance.



The pallour of your ethics needs the cloak. The stellar you've become requires the cloak. For…

Larry L, Erika Badiou, Too Loose for you

and Matahari hop to Cheshire infantry

mon enfance

Brel strict symphonie



in three



waltz the poor o

mop

the poor o mope

sadness and trickiness

is your angry man scope



the happy? well man, that's double crappy

no gold sold or blood diamonds to Nairobi

fluvial unities



pulsing with xy dynamite

parabola surface dig to

open cut

the kinky sufi master at a rave



old man…

When I am alone for many years

the voice of people whisked away

the epistrophe of their entreaties

do not escape me



the planets by radial circuitry

hum and integrate the calls

to return by broadcasts

heard solely by



not my ear but the

porous waves

interrupting my thoughts

as rude music

that makes me smile knowingly



"Ah, they miss me"  I think

When I am alone I miss them

with pointed fury



the heart is a silent…