painting flowers
we are lip readers and
between the index and make
up we carry pup tents
on our backs and we chant
did you like our
chanting? we know it
is dark and smoky
but could you hear it?
our chanting ? i mean in
the corn fields and under
the palmy phalluses
stolen
from the xxxs and
ooos of your unhinged
comfort
bones dripping delicate
silence
the wrong # you dialed
the wrong # we knew
but we answered anyway
and we offered you
an unspecified consolation
prize
the offer expires soon
so don't wait until
the shadows of dancing
clover
appear on your hollow
innocence
where abstract chains
rattle without geometric
precision
we are lip readers and
we chant while we set
up our pup tents after
we have taken them
off our backs
(yes it was distressing
to watch the old tattered
faded black umbrella
slip and fall on the
slippery distance of
your uncertainty)
we are lip readers and
our pup tents are our
passengers
and yesterday morning
in the doll house we
spent one hour painting
flowers
while our passengers looked on
they were white flowers
you know
white flowers
and they begged us to
dress them in different
colours so we did
a triptych
escaping through smoky mist
dripping from caramelized
apple trees a dream a pale
blue dream sneaking inside
softly closing doors leaving
behind decomposing street names
and frozen silhouettes shivering
__________________________
come to sightsee have you
expecting you we left some
clouds unwhispered too many
tourists come to listen to the
clouds before surrendering
blistered to fading shadows
we regret to inform you that
the lecture on pale blue rubber
bands has been cancelled and
no one knows why
__________________________
in the middle of a street cracked
and forgotten a ladder a pair of
binoculars and a warning do
not eat the jellyfish they are
pale blue the jellyfish are
unfinished
a word unfinished
interrupted by stories
stories of the invisible
the misfits the forlorn
gasping at the stench
of the beautiful
no favorites to be
found here in the
company of an
unvisited pendulum and
some angry bubble
gum
you were playing in
the dirt i have been told
what was that like
playing in the dirt?
heavy
the losses were understood
and colourless
but you always won
i lied
like so many, i lied
don't you?
sometimes?
lie?
at the bus station
the adventure, remember? its
distorted scars, its scattered
traces of imperfectly sunlit
fog and its illusions escaped
from song and trance
the adventure, remember? its
scars
clean and smooth then their
sorrow invisible to all
but you and me the fog
remember? its weightlessness
so perfectly sunlit and
the illusions too remember?
their ripeness full as forgotten
fruit abandoned in towers of
endless submission and loneliness
things getting a little crazy
in the laundromat, remember?
and the purple flames, remember?
of candles piercing the weightless
fog their lack of privacy lamented
and surely you must remember the
magical colours carousing with
abandon in lower case volcanos
and
