Inane

I

Long answers shortened
Spilled upon the white tar, gathering garbage,
A small hand, pitiful,
Drops from the cradle,
Pale palm; alabaster,
Raking the sodden leaves, black and gold by
The decay of time.
Does it feel the lips of sand through the heap of shedded flesh,
Or the odour of armless guests sail through the rest
Of the garbage
Gathered upon the white tar
The white tar, the white tar, a fell desert of fallen stars.

Look right at the left
Till you are left, looking right at yourself

Since when did the rhythm of words
Have escalated the flavor of form?

II

This age has been kind,
To the cattles
Roaming freely along the roads
As Hermes on hash and
Eyes full of fear and tear and tar
Sitting symposium on walking slow but reaching far.

The moonlight falls through the trees as trick
And bees with honey hover
Over the pink froth of crusted smiles
Their be sounds of tiny teacups
Taming thunder in her wild.

Take the napkin, sweet love
Wipe the wine that stains thy face;
The chiseled contours of constraint
Holding together the cracks of your feelings,
Lest the painter in pain find faults
In your peerless beauty of tarnished times
And burn home the truth, in whipping strokes
Of his, that reveal the bones you hide
Under the youthful peach tree
You have watered every moment
In perfected agony