Poetry

Drinking Alone Under The Moon

Among the flowers from a pot of wine
I drink alone beneath the bright moonshine.
I raise my cup to invite the moon, who blends
Her light with my shadow and we're three friends.
The moon does not know how to drink her share;
In vain my shadow follows me here and there.
Together with them for the time I stay
And make merry before spring's spend away.
I sing the moon to linger with my song;
My shadow disperses as I dance along.
Sober, we three remain cheerful and gay;
Drunken, we part and each goes his way.
Our friendship will outshine all earthly love;
Next time we'll meet beyond the stars above.

- Li Bai

Brooze

The color of a bruise is in yellow on dark.
Then working a lightish red and the straight
finger it's far. Montana pipe shining on
the spot and its stair. A medicine push to
closer bruises, khaki in gray, a painting.
That green leaf, in curve, in blonde, where's
its leak, is way gone. A soon clock,
that moves the cold back in voice. The
random numbers there are in a print where
this gets hysterical and rinses.
What's the blood?

Omnivore Paint


Saw art like supper over the hooks. On
them, hang arms, cut to halves. Will I shore to
wreckage? It did. Pirates say harps. Pink angel
blends (?) anything does. The fault, back-eyed black,
bringing. Sure not. Am I cornered in shotgun?
Purple vase of shape. Monster green scatters
dust to shaded scarves, the blue-light leaking.
Black and orange to contrast neither a
color. Beige pavement. Colors painting loud.

Accompany Co.


In bleeding hallways, of armor scratched,
Of the roaches hidden, with food crumbing the lids,
Of a broken water, mirrors and dandruff combs;
Of pills, disastrous to touch like kindled fires,
Mopped repeatedly, mopped repeatedly, where we have stool dislodge,
Bleeding, long webs carved by spider tracks;
Where through a sink holds syringes [used],
Traveling like beasts.

I have this shit owned.

Thunderous Knives


Thunderous, your voice rained the halls like
Jelled explosives and your octagon pain
I could feel as sharp as a stencil.
My ears followed your crackled moans
Like hounds baked by the sun in fields
Strong as an ivory sword.

Your eyes were snapped gray, and your skin
Was melted into a pale mold that distorted
The senses like insufflated powders.
An ant-pile of blood-caked clothes lie
over the kitchen knives.

What of prayer?

Sinners, difference, capitol of blood
we pray for our bandages and lips.
Doors of technology open for guests
breaking because the glass raps.
The doors are thinking. Watch behind the flame
there is ash to blanket skin
with charcoal, it kisses in grunge spots
and poets for the clouds, we pray.
Of havoc stains, what will magic spread?
Underneath the silhouette of kitchen knives,
beaten, breathless, brunette child wanders
through the park leaves, praying against a thorn-bush
and she sings a song for everyone, about planes, ducks
and the underground musicians.

frequency, how long have you been writing for?

Here's deep;

Vagina.

Thank you.

Have you never fucked a virgin, Stoker?