Beneath the arc of the rounded rainbow ley
Whistled the lark as the arrow lost its way
The Blue lightless perfect-colored obfuscaire
Still supine, I crossed the sandy veil
Falling forever through each measure;
All moral minds sentinel
Falling to Hell
Breathe together,
Farewell.

The circle we drew as we moved but tried to look down was wiped away with the sound of the morning rooster's crow...
His tail was tied to a hammer and he dragged it to the horizon

In the hallway outside my bedroom door,
I heard the old dead sleigh gliding to its restful drones, purposely knocking the pictures off their nails.
With a vacancy ogling my sober inhalation, our curator's rocking to the rhythm of the rain on her carved hair here in this room, with the inverted torches at its barrier, where materia vibrated out.
Its vibration left a plume climbing its way up a blue-blessed curl, which was girdled by aurora of obliging black morel.
Then, I called and cried out while I minded the bell that dangled crazily closet edge of the basin of the rain which fell.
(It fell in the shape of a bifurcated ammonite shell).

A beacon as blue as a bowerbird's eye in the morn,
A poem written in threes over four,
My oeuvre based on the coy and forlorn,
Another boy's parallel night in the harrow,
And the quiet decline of my questionable rhythm.
Disinterested forever in upwards motion,
I hung out by the white chalk letters.

I watched my body move and let it.

The cathedral buried beneath another cathedral is where the glibbest instrument lay
And there it rests, exhausted,
While in the visible room, a band continues to play.

The insensitive diviner, feeling ill.

The beetle rolled over and time stopped
Suddenly the gospel pages multiplied
And my entire bookshelf reversed itself.

I don't want to be the melody
I prefer the choking sow
Who, while taking every care to parry
Has wound up with her head in the ground
And each of us choking on the cannonball with a sound
Can't help but sleep until it's dark
And winter weighs on every bough
We watch you as you drown
And reach up to us on your way down
You're hanging from your toes in a tiffany redoubt
Come back and I'll tell you more..

Laughter is ceasing,
All the coroners of New Orleans
Are calling, all the coroners are calling you

You are completely alone in this world
It's not your fault it's just easy to forget
Waiting for a voice to say come in
Outside, a bell is ringing on a traveling olive branch
Now I'll be cold forever
To an innocent stranger?
Which hand is heavier on the snare?

Slowly relieve the sow
From her revolving white out
Releasing groans in quiet telepathy
A weight no cradle can hold

Answer no blood-diluted question
The floorboards bow so lethargically
Releasing groans no cradle can hold

A mild avenue to think
A body turns to body mild
Pale in shadow, left untethered
Begins again a blanched cascade
Endlessly draining through the eyelid
Sublime display, upside-down

Gently augmenting the weight
Lowly, lowly, lowly, lowly allow
Seeing how the variant victims are arrayed
A burden I can't even keep myself awake
Tie her to the endpost while she deflates.

The wooden lookout seven stories high
The steeple at the top it won't stop singing
singing singing singing
It's got a rigid rule number one
It's to keep the bodies living
The last crooked sign to bend to the way trees are growing

The usual size of a growth that's been trying
for several hundred thousand seconds
Allows you to drop from the eaves to the leaves in only several hundred thousand seconds
You almost can see the fearless machine milling blindly
Beneath the calamity looming when the sun goes down
We hope the clouds stop bouncing each other off the mountains
We hope the wooden lookout has a gutter it can use
Ear to the ground alone where the edge of the day was
The valley clicking to the tape already rolling
Makes me want to turn the violin down

This wind wheel won't stop spinning
This damned wind wheel won't stop spinning around.

The shamelessly desirous broken heart inside the otherwise empty cabinet of doom
Weeps what it's modesty beating without.

The youngest grave will hold a crowd before
The people stuck on the train have a reason to doubt.

The shamelessly desirous broken heart inside the
otherwise empty cabinet of doom
Weakens our modern prophetic distractions.

Pretty paths to perfidy and crooked roads to valor
And people stuck on their rooftops with a Government ladder.

The Ribbon of the Bell
Slipped her stockings straight
And fluttered to the choir below
And tied herself to the countertenor
Leftmost in the frontmost row.

I saw her path before she even fell
And that is why I stood beneath the bell
And from the bottom up,
Its details stark and doubted
Ignite an uproar in stained-glass
And sound the trumpets of vanity
With knowledge of a monument erased
I'm the woodpecker on the chimney
Digging at the wrong stone
But blithely shaking off an ordinary brown
Those faded feathers somersaulting low across the road.