Poems about death

Poems about death  on the dying bed   and birds that fly belly up

If it all goes it goes

So dear dearest don’t

Sweat

Don’t stain your flesh or cleanse your pours  clean and kept

Those lovely hot sexy toxins

And now just close   your eyes

So tightly   close’n’d 

Forming hard smooth stones

And prayer that upper lip

Will feather   that

 good  weekend

arrot drowning in stucco

The thought of a carrot drowning in stucco

Makes him feel sensuous, boisterous and scrupulous.

And this could bring good news to an otherwise sweaty thankless   ness.

You vow’d to go to heaven.

Press your lips to his feet.

Horse =horse  =horse

Famous people born under the horse:

Neil Armstrong

Boris Yeltsin

The Earl of Snowdon

Lenin

Rembrandt

Rossellini

Thomas Alva Edison

Theodore Roosevelt

Franklin d. Roosevelt

Billy graham

Mandela

Ulysses S. Grant

Barbara Streisand

Paul McCartney

Khrushchev

Edward VIII, Duke of Windsor

Patty Hearst

The Lotus is a perennial broad-leaved water plant found in ponds and marshes.

It likes mud.

One girl is a professor of far eastern philosophy and some one else is married with three children and one day when the sky is right they will kiss and make a baby and wrap that baby in the new york times.

i woke up thinking

i woke up thinking

of clean living chemistry

deal breakers aroused

cling clanging and yes

there must be variations

oh and other weird stuff

stuff so unfamiliar

stuff that stuff is made of

so then welcome

to my welcome

mainly and possibly

sprouting

with an aim to shoot

the arrows of our own

selves  selves   selves

and what does this word   even mean

after you say it three times

The to do list

The to do list

perched with promise

Does an alibi

in black and white

with ever

holes all over

Like Jekyll and Hyde

All stacked up

Ends all loose 

A survey of richness

A survey of richness

And textures

Pronouns and donuts

The ‘us’ and how it got   so

Smitten

Large numbers   living

Scattered accusations    served

Acquisitions splayed under glass

cupped in parentheses

Those stilettoed complaints summoning slippered restitution

We were birthed to be buried

The first and never forgotten

Village

All those villagers doing the hop

the gleam in their eyes

the witch in his headstand

god in that gap between her teeth

And the soft sob of the almighty

And Puff…  I mean Poof.

I’m gonna write

Ok

I’m gonna write

you a poem   then crash out

it’s with my teeth marking

and firmness

you said you were good at some things

and I imagined them in the rain

and the sexy pavement

wet and glistening

with the street light

and the high truck

drives bye

and we don’t stop

on just that spot