Fuzzy Hymnals and Myopic Prophecy

my shoes-- and the way i wear them--

will not convince you i'm the one to love.
my shorts-- and the way they frame my lack of an ass--
do nothing to sway you, nor will they ever.

my eyes may belie my intentions, my façade of haberdashery--
though they look away, turn from yours
and the unblemished sight they strive to see--
but when closed, they
always roll inwards, to gaze upon your snowglobe visage:

mirage of gemstone irises and candied lips--
whose partings send forth a turpitudinous beckoning;

how my amaurotic dreams long to
languidly sire
these ideas, these ideas into actuality
as they spring forth

unduly

from your piquant, heightened sensuality.

From the yawning depths of
your chasm'ous innerspaces

(dark to balance the trill of my luminous cacophony
as we ride upon the breath of the night)

comes a watery feeling;

I hope to whatever Gods may be
that Thales was right in his Greek assumptions;

Your tears are all I have left to hold onto.
Mine flow away:

molten silver into molten fissures.

10.06.012 Nameless Still

What syllables could ever hope to form
themselves
with any modicum of true meaning?

And as that liquid ditty floats,
prancing onward down the faces
linéd-- tears like rivers streaming--

the golden moon sets itself
in a hymnal of fuzz.

Fly upward, outward, Ghost--
penny for your thoughts,
treatise to bar the wailings--

ephemeral conjuncts
(a joining of hands, praises rising)

drop to stillness, malquiescence, night's promise:

we will go on forever.