Not among the roses

Instinct curates hypothesis
 as and when I feel the liveliness
of a bloodied rock I sit upon.
 The questions are windward,
and so is an irrationally warm
 November. The harshness may
be warranting, and life a belated
 apology, but still it doesn't
have to be about rocks, does it?

Defining sequence

And if like a cloud
   you are caught between
the drift, or bursting open

into scant consideration.
   Off your limits, contemplating
death - slow and quick

like a shipwrecked sailor.
  And if like the abandoned
lie, you are someone's greatest

memory, the unworn rope
  around the sea - one that
always finishes in someone's

 hands. There is silence to look
  forward to, and look back upon
 like there is water, at the
 
middle of the ocean - an ocean
 incapable of curbing its appetite
for the deserted, and the loved alike.

It's me, not you

Breakwater types 

 that men like to hold on to,

dress in envelopes

 and send to whosoever will read them,

thoughts are like 

 lacerating muscles

unveiled to look 

  their nightly best

but because night rises

 and dusts itself 

after it falls, and not

 because their is the relative

evil, as there is poetry

 in a lot of unspecified space

because it simply allows

 it, to be me rather than you.

Before people were born

I lived inside the clock,
threw my head, back into

the penal jar, like the
apostrophe following

a learning, that with time
on the outside, I could die young
    and not know about it at all.

Want

Let me not walk to him
when he looks to the sea

Let us not find together, his
fists in the sand

Let me not hear him say again -
someone please get it

Potatoes

Wishlist -
Death working
its way up

Winter, her face
translates everything

No birds in the sky
I came and went
as told

Parched throat
Half of every life
spent screaming

Coughing blood
into the sink
the ocean rises

Not enough wind
comes this way
Not word from her either

The moon lies still
a spider in my head
weaves the rest

Benzylhidrinithium !
try guessing chemistry

The brewery on fire
seeing her
in a new light

Unexpected deaths
I would do better
I think

Clouds close to water
slurrpp slurrpp slurrpp

Grazing-
touched by warmth
in the grave

Old silence
  snow breaks
on the nonliving

Sunday noon
a firecrest unlikely
to slow it down

the four seasons
     only autumn with two
languages to learn

  Water in the dog's ears
  A thing so uninterrupted

Grandma's old watch
Cancer ticks first

And the river turns

Disdain, had its eye on fire.
Shadows of dandelions used to fall
across my feet - where I now stand -
as did my children. Renting
life in each other's arms, under
that little pride we chose not to weep.
They raped, but left my wife only cut,
and me from the inside, forever lit

as I began to hear more in the dark.
About the menstrual sickness,
the turning of the book shelf,
boiling of the antelope's horns
in a town far, far from here,
where a feast prepared - they
called it the holocaust - of her
body as soup, and my brain as the bone.