Work To Be Done, Here On Mars...

I have 100 bones in my closet, traveling in coats you hang from the horns of goats, destined for the Roman ring to fight lions, but you tell them to listen, and to eat Christians. You time traveling man, you unpredictable marvel of magic, you were born in the years that the mountains were alight, like candles in windows at night, you learnt your magic from Eastern gypsy mystics, and from books that fell to the ground as dust. I have 100 stones in my closet, borrowed from Solomon, I build walls and motes and castles, and I crown myself King, in a euphoric utopian wonderland, made from the sweat of masons, blood of fascists, and on the bones of dinosaurs.

To My Yesterday...

I woke up on the floor of another man's dream, I flicked unlit matches at witches, so they could die by their own hand. I woke up on the floor of another man's death, and for the first time I lived. I lived in the embrace of rooted silence, taking flight around branches of pythons, holding on tight to the manes of flying lions, and I had to laugh at the shallow face of water sirens.

Dreaming Japanese...

I saw a flower in your hand, tied to a ribbon you crushed the petals, and dropped the strand.

I left willows in the water for the trendy decay.

Been Away For Weeks...

Give someone everything and they know nothing. Punch the keys out accurately. Type directions to the gate the goats greet you, on the back of a whale fin, like the time you ran against the wind, on the span of an eagle's wing. It's never been the same since you refused to remove those shoes, I'm sorry but they have to go, like the inscription I wish was fiction, on my fob watch, clockmaker man, watch my watch chime lots, turn back the time to when I was young in my mind, when I smelled like pine, on the back of a ride-on in a dead orchid, it waited for rain and some love, you wished you were coral in a salty sea, be a jellyfish with me, be stainless steel, not silver.

We Just Want Sleep...

The poetry is, we are logs in a burning room, like moths to a flame, our hearts will be on fire again soon. We can exchange words, and have what they call, a conversation. Take it all, the pieces like bird seed in my hands, for the wingless who can't fly, but use their heads to stand.