Rimbo the Sailor

Do you turn your face to the wall

and let your breath hang low

to hover and stain the curtains?

Will you let the memories become

dry grey stones streaked

white, itching with , shriveled vines

withered hands brown and curled?

Suspended in a box you are,

diorama hanging from strings made

of twilight.

Think, then, drink instead

the deep,sweet wine of your days with

the Ocean, under her in the blue cathedral

of her womb,

on her supple belly.

Guzzle the nights, the incense, the smooth

bronze country of a woman's shoulder.

In the thundercloud of your brain, tell

me of the electric magic of

ON and OFF dancing

through your fingers and making

rivers through your head

and tell me if you be truly dead.

When he goes to

trumpet his barbaric

hoot and bray to

his, to the ones who wear the

thin veneer of friendship,

calls them his homies, his dawgs,

his niggas,

inside herself she

does a cringe for this

poor bastard at the coffee shop

who works in the underwriting department

who went to four years of college,

learning how to get along.

over heard

Don't look now

giving us a ray of ,

but they already know it

just hope the fuck they

hope and change

the power and the glory

who takes away

that feeling that you just got

don't show it

the sins of the world

are waiting for your heated touch

I will keep my

pushy, violent kids away

from your whiny bitchy ones

I can see where they get it from

ripped off

yeah, I believe that shit

you believe a man's ass is

where you find happiness and I

30 percent off

believe in the Trinity and shit...\

oh...my..god...

you will not fuckin' believe

the donuts they have here..

love is the pits

Let there be light

and music that makes the

ears ring,

then darkened surf, the primal sea,

that tosses we

two in swaying

chains

The temple smell

of incense and cloves

the torrid reek

of perspiration

and libation

conjure the blood

and bodies

make it sacred

grinding in the twisting

throb

your body electric and

light as a a live wire

my hands bruised and

ribs on fire

the cut on your

forehead making love

to my bleeding lips

living on

into our

grinding days.

Knacker

Cart away the feathers of crows and

The red dirt of ruination.

Mix them in an iron bowl

Fresh with the salve of patience.

Stacked in a corner under a low roof

The hides of raw harvesting are

Scrimshawed by the dragon’s tooth.

Outside on poles hard and black with

Cheap ichor, the skeins of

Unused love claw at the wind

And lose their

Scarlet, fade

To pink and then

Whiten

Into ghosts

When every electron turns to light

rendered with all the rest

there will still be a

you

and an all seeing

I

to she who has lived

her life for other people

and what they want from her

nuzzling at her purring teat

taking the last cookie from

the jar, the one

she was saving, but not

leaving a damn note,

I give her a voice

to say " I

am tired of being eclipsed

and walking off the

bruises that come from

the stations of the

cross you bitches demand."

and yet they

eat on

not hearing a word until

she pulls

the calloused nipple

and goes to happy hour.

happy days are here agian.

Well, there's no business

like show business

except for giving the business

to the chumps

because there is a lot of bending over

and there is a little bit of stealing.

Everything that the traffic

will allow,sir, and we just

stare blankly at the scene.

There's no business.

There's no business,

just people looking

for work.