Thursday, January 21, 2010


There’s all skins are fluttering

I’ve made a number-plate towards the alluring ashes

My thick bones … no calendars to call her name …
Bubbles of ceramic sounds

Her constellations on her arms,
Moles and membranes on my shirt

As I’ve left the anatomy wool
And papers flying flying through the dark

All dodos are with me on a boat

Sunday dreams and a swirling hue
And the walking doors of a
Foul harpsichord

I’m a terrific ride with vanishing flakes and

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