Into the Moss

People in the sky, goats in the volcanic caves. How will it all end?

From the clammy palms to the jittery toe-tacs: pizza directions.

Neighbourly tensions soften in the ashes, overspill is mopped up.

The heart's fruition: furniture to be removed. Wrong size and wrong weight.

Things never happen, face-down in the wedding cake, foaming at the guests.

The theif in the sky reaches for the colour chart when the lights go out.

Faces from the ice, promising the past again, sprouting and awake.

It's disappointing, if the critics don't listen, when my engine revs.

Freed from ancestry, I thought the clocks had gone back. Horology, eeuch!

Forgetness spins dizzy water memories, jumping in the stream.

A cowboy had hold of a barrel, a cowboy had hold of a ball.

Do not talk to me, when you see me in the street. I'm with my mummy.

In freezing bleakness I call out to myself, twice. Amidst sweet dog-song.

Picture every day as your last day to dress up (for eternity).

Pesto Pasta Man is luckily unaware of cosmic fist-bumps.

For years rusted shut, a heart left out in the rain balances the scales.

In the chase of night, motel knuckles knock too late: dawn's buried itself.

Permitted to leave, circumambulation stirs ambivalent ways.

What you do not know lies somewhere on the inside. Open up and see.

Roots rooting seasons. Body sacks sup the coffee. The stroganoff blues.

Dive into the folds, annihilation awaits Prig floating in the pool.

Rise from shore to sky, evaporated opera. Dissolve in water.

A door-whisperer, hiding the resident truth, praise for the shut door.

Emerald gardens tilt towards the dying sun, as visitors fall.

Fingers guide this one, digits point with urgency. Idiot for sale.

Smashed into living. Empty my bags, architects! Get out of the house!

Support systems down, mum and dad are orphans now. Sob amongst yourself.

Resolute harness. Familial bonds transplant hair. Daughter risen high.

Inheritance chokes, released like flatulent guests. Regret at all cost.

Homes built for shelter; technologies buried low. She swallowed a cat.

Brawling figures judge,

Now's the spider's turn: A facile reduction, up the chelicerae.

The village hall waits, all the while nothing happens. There is so much pain.

Web-bound surveillance, karmic cycle's swift return, silk-spinner draws near.

Definitely, the Pencilman's virility. Certainly it is.

With Obsidian, fault's with the candidate, or there's no fault at all.

Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.

Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?

Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.

Alchemical balls: swearing's not big or clever, even in your head.

The red-flag woman, tweed-sleeved arm outstretched, spraying: "dogs are mist's princes".

Car-to-car living. Lemonade fever dreams fail. Give back my money.

Dark across the brow, the fields are met by fingers scratching in the dirt.

The world went to pot, because you did not donate to the fundraiser.

Pulped sardines on bread, shelter for the yuppie bones, huddled in the hall.

The decks creak with a litany of transgressions. Judgement mans the helm.

Worlds as yet untapped, backwash over this charcoal (quantum forest sketch).

See the Nightingale whirr to where the air is thin. Wait for what will be.

Don't give me all that "la-di-da-di-da", I'm sick of people like you.

Retching, I'm pulled back to the frozen underpass, animals snorting.

Voices from the past scatter through the open door, that you left ajar.