like the night with the knee
with a long steel blue and fluttering belly
pliable dead melted tender
and trees are playing with pipes
like a river to slow down it looks like a little dog
he comes out of it forever, waving
the return has an old worn-out garment
drifting war, unknown evaluation
for eye sockets over far-reaching deviations
sends the crazy shrunken great moon scorch
and posters, ancient as parched reads
the flickering tape from her teahouse
the feet stand up, the ivory ones are with the grade
before they find out about their escape
greenish breath
the particles of desire move
flickering jingles like a curved shutter
tinted smoothly enter girls
as every heat sleeps
still standing
his stones and gnawing stairs in descending effort
frustrating candles in the lights
are drone machines
fire up his night
old floor dress on gathered smiles
candles always like stars off the heads
time stutters
she breasts cataclysm
everyone curses a wonderful western night
not for a tree, people knock it
people cry, heads shine stiffly
mumbling of the points where the crowd spreads
golden infinity through the spiers
a weak flame is a sweaty squat on your toes and a pile of garbage
cheeky, comforting lunar
his grille poster
when and vigilance - eyes are companions
until Christmas
the stalls blowing in small and never facades
pushing through, and he and multiplying seeds
keep all gold for the light
transparent bow
shaking like splashing squawks of babies
Friday, December 24, 2021
"Transparent Bow" (New poem, 2021/12/24)
Thursday, December 23, 2021
"Appeal" (New poem, 2021/12/23)
on the right, purple, amethyst roofs
diffuse pains, old fingers
dog consolation grows
that's enthusiastic, examines the clothes
dried up, damp, long lost
amazing flight
her darkroom, with groans
or ground lavender
but the fifth floor in Or changes the buyer
born centuries on phosphorus
softly, my eyes
but his children come out of the alleys like the fifth floor
as if Romanians at night
if it sounded
tempting shopkeepers
the newsmen take it, this close fire has amassed the old ghetto
pushing through the biscuits
one burning glory gesture of persuasion
similar to calico
walls so low
whom still in groups
they got the appeal and up warped
in the collapsed ghetto
in her bales at the traffic lights
they nibbled on us without any momentum, here is a little mother
she saved points with her foot
in which thread
what and what and how
he garments infinite like theirs like
he honks
lustful, nothing more than resonant
stunningly indomitable and above all burning clay at night
and bales muffled by old chalices
I know the dungy, I rock
their sign over the great grave
here it spreads out
the word clutch
her welcome pack of women
on his in his smooth old she spits her eye
duvet always stretched out
like men always beauty scarves
razor and untenable ... their strap
oh, and the pools ... majestic gaze at the door
to the screams of tenement houses
like hail, and bluntly and his children with an appeal
"Staccato" (New poem, 2021/12/23)
like judging and glistening eyes on the front sandals
everything ... manger intentions, its square
her dangling light
from everywhere and lifts her and neglected
congregation ... insolent, chatting,
to offer a wicked portion of amber
the astonishing flare and the passing heralded the lard
furriers, to withdraw
only one this time
their towers about outside the night driven English
girls one face dark old,
except the pearl book,
and indestructible life is wine
the potato gentiles continue
before the infinite others take it
hearing are like wool Sarah
in these so powerful, jumping work
mass groups of life
the converging parrot was nights
her and their melted protest
it got dark at all
holiday
and straightens and looks changing, fulfilling all the torment
soft with her not semi-saint
and the dark part in it all the way to the gate
Sadie white head
shiny stands for meetings
his is spitting Israel,
which nose if pain ... ego up light
bursting, the crowd like dingy blinding
should march them that the roars saw us
it's them, faces and changes
Light!
Countless Christian nights
they have a passion, she rhapsodizes
with a crochet purple shrunken motion
Max turned the bra, which looked like a burnt room
which sparkles, roaring before the voice to the west
from upbringing and protecting Life
on his street
his line
but the body
naked fingers on their toes like they have redbeards
it's male staccato
"Russian Dawn" (New poem, 2021/12/23)
eyes and scrubs
he is different
one from the street
like a little tide close
covering itself like wool with its stars
and golden halls
climbing world
cry out at his beginning
their bleeding hands make them white through the entire but uneven street
I like young, developed
there is a square, its turn of humility
all closed to the light
endless traffic lived like factories
melting luminous rollers for home
church in Yiddish
but to beads, roads,
and for the above
Sarah loosens her jewels
approaching from the left, they hear the tam-dams
all fired I left the summons in all the light
igniting
most stutter wisely like iron ritual
solid floor
baby's collar stiff
like engraved in velvet play
hair mixed up like that
bleak street
like mister musing and ending with a scream
sacrilege or closure
rotated feeds have shrunk
that there aren't many on the facades
she should be cheeky when pushing through
and she will have other things and plates
more feet and a word than skin
Sarah is growing
attitude
bend the package to the lights
the night will go out
English ... red tension
the vortex swirls
its over his people
clearly at the very Russian dawn
how fearless
but it is greeted by light
3 poems (2021/12/23)
Wool
I'm going slowly
thin shiver
wool on a leash
clothes in a coat
stitched furs
pocket books decaying
amethyst ages and proud, unwavering, fiery faces
word always
boys girls as their own
not fed
sumptuous that girl
courtesan
Reservation
reservation
or your pickles
ticking, every house mocks you
with goods like gliding on your own Broadway
as always, they have met in raw glass for centuries
and olive candles
her naked body creaks
like her shawl on a thick plaster look
filled with weak scorpions
the fact that Sarah's second attempt at testimony faded
grown up together
joining hands with mother
which wraps itself in a halo in her arms
looking at the towers
break it or the saddles
sway over your bird
Eyes
follows the alleys is like broken
without his appeal if heads spin
keep it juicy and not meant to play
messed up his room
bare surviving body
and the gray collar crinkled old age and soft
brilliant beards, with eyes
indifferent redhead should bite
loops on the gray standing up still turned woman
her and her bodies judging the indolent night in harmony
swirling greens is an effort
rip off his coat-sleeve
by shaking its hinges or growth trades its eyes
flame or street
and the baby bounces them to the woman, with the balls
teary glow
Wednesday, December 22, 2021
"She" - 4 poems (2021/12/22)
She (1)
the fire strike is the egg
tearing her and the children apart
wax dim
"W" is like a line
but ... walls with me, like bewilderment, over great wind
leans over ... turned away girl
she defeated the bird.
Babble
parched face in the room
and the room is mixed up - naked, save her - he assesses
all factories
the crackling guarding bird is to melt
stooped woman with gum
words, though crooked and noisy - psychology, shabby, paper and prolonged
the prisoner gurgles waving at an ancient vision -
with a brilliant me, but store employees, newsboys
one small eye socket so bright that countless screaming sneers hurt
she
mumbles in nurturing gibberish.
Light
the light pouting naked ...
there is no cross to that
her every shot turned velvety
the bloody goy in the open and perverted
wounds not pulled back at night
I was making attacks on the body's throat
there in breaking her, to them and fainting
the old woman gloomily ... look, everything in the trap of dissolving needles
bales of flames
dimly one to the white court,
mine - theirs outside,
that the rolls were like baby cribs.
She (II)
ready to hear things-- there are other nights of them
come with a key to each
unannounced feast
and faint - you will
because fabric bells
spattering curves
they will tremble on the table. - the soul behind the jade ...
everything like glass shaking glass
faded trampling in crying
and the soul behind the balls
a terror that crackles and twists like a violet.
"Vega" (New poem, 2021/12/22)
the magic kingdom speaks
agest dust bowls disintegrate
the void
echoes of skulls crushing crystal
down a pyramid
as high
as Orion
it tells a tale
of Vega
back centuries ago
it says:
on Vega stars were brighter
I turned the other page
faced the gray
found a cold coverlet flower
looked at the tender gutters' moon
worn bee night's like a chairman of egos
and home was like a belly
Vorwärts!
up and down
through the waste
on Vega people were kinder
in triumphant dawns unafraid
asking
what have our centuries done to your Egypt
aureoled bursting bowl
by are we of vine
waving what to write on tombstones
and no room for sand
old eternal bells
ringing
Vorwärts!
on Vega highways were longer
pulp wind blowing
eager through the corn
young heads drive pallor
in a psychedelic desert
march and thought all free
gorgeous
by everything... time
the asbestos skies
ghetto - the behind - know home suction cafe
on Vega we order another cup
on Vega we're immortal
on Vega we died to exist
Tuesday, December 7, 2021
Saturday, December 4, 2021
"Night" (New poem, 2021/12/04)
I am transmitting night
there are cool crystal flowers in sky tents
ready to ripe
and sow again
the bosom of planets
there are ghosts of dusk at the junction
passing anonymous freight trains
into the abyss
of rebirth
storm coming slowly
from the car sitting on top of the mount
passengers gazing down
thinking what's theirs to keep
night is transmitting me
she is patient on a motorcycle
speeding through the suburbs
crucified, free
life articulate
she tempts the city to an orgy
sinning and whipping their eyes with dawn
butterflies sparkling frost in her hand
transmission is my night
easy country songs on the radio
wiping out atomic ash easy listening
that I took to bachelor's pad
along with books on survival
I will stay in this bunker
there are good and bad microrhythms
serving the binaural cosmos
tea and pancakes and crayons
writing poems in white
I am night's transmission
empty seeds of clouds
blurred edges of an obsidian knife
ashen Mayan temple
skin on stone on religion
there will be other junky travelers
sped up to 45
from their lounge of guilt and sandpaper voice
where satin sheet folly never ends
and chicks come home late
to watch the band rehearse...
oh, this will be the night