More DeSire MachiNEs Fer Yer PleAsURE AND mEasURE YER hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmand thrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuummm Poesies cross thee lines of Yer Lips into the Virtuals of a Place to be yerselves the -- One TWo ThReE BuCklE Yer ShoE mY ShoE KIss Taps and Wait Weddings _____It was alWayS the Way Of Love and Lover Machines|I saw you |I Saw you In Two| ||One has been saved by and for love, by abandoning love and slf. Now one is nore more than an abstract an arrow crossing the void ________________________________________________________
AnTonIn __Artaud the Schizo:___
From the depths of his suffering
and his glory... AntiOedipus ...135 Artaud

Nomad Chariot. Entirely of Wood, Altai. Fifth to Fourth Centuries B.C.|| Image |From One Thousand Plateaus:351


The Nile

The Nile

It seems my eyes are rivers, endless
and sun swept. Here - impossibly pure
and banked by sand,
is haven.

Limbs float, tentatively tied to
trunks deserted to new generations.
Half hidden, I am
the crocodile.

Yet, in the sifted silt
submerged, I am painted
a disarming shade of jade.



Thanks for the inivite. On the run for the next few day but I leave a small token of my appreciation.


Islands clipping the dove's tail
the canvas still wet
smells of nightmares

Waiting for the clashing islands to part
for the moment cliffs begin to separate
and ships slip quickly between
to safe harbors smelling of salty dreams

wings clipped
air still
no breath
only illusions in paint

wet still upon the canvas


Wheal of Fortune

day off
kilter some poison

seeping from
that rogue chakra

you tattooed
under my tongue

The Ghost of the Wind

There’s a ghost in the porch swing.
Some might say it’s just the wind
but they don’t know that the wind
around here is a ghost itself.

You can see it trying to change
things in one way or another
when it flips over a paper cup
and spills beer onto the outdoor furniture.

You can see it trying to remind us
of its significance when it lifts the curtains
up from your windowsills and sends them billowing
in the air like it once did the sails of legendary ships.

But mostly the wind has become content
to laze around the flowers,
to wander through the limbs of trees
and occasionally pull some raucous prank

like flinging an umbrella inside out
or tossing a young man’s ball cap down the street:
small, pleasurable things like retirees do
when they have relinquished their responsibilities

to the world and given in to the push
of the next generation, when they have decided
to live out the rest of their days in a porch swing
because outside the rain keeps coming down.



I stroke your crumbled bones,
sun baked and weather-worn
in a desert graveyard.

I fondle the ivory relics of your name,
beat them into the earth
with the drums of my feet.

You don't answer.

Have you forgotten, in sewn-eyed darkness,
or do you still whisper,
as I do, in elephant songs?

This piece can also be found in Other Voices Project with a small collection of my work, or at my personal/poetry blog at Poetic Acceptance



I want to go
to the White City--
nor with carnations,
rhetoric, a trunk;
nor with his letters
to, for, and against
I want to
go running and mugged.

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.