vrijdag 10 oktober 2014


Born a leader, almost beaten to death.
He chose you before you had chosen Him.
Mettling to let gracious movement be.
We are by dint in the hustling channel of existence, in an odd speed
To brake slow, before the open.
Our fingers can almost reach to it.
I can see the roots of the world's malady. 
Grains of skin iron whipped bitter doleful wet from slaves still pressing into dust.
As we clock in, you show me the bullet of your throat.
The promised land wasn't promised to you, and your dream was not yours.
Unrelentingly doubts have sprung forth.
Brewing denial to conclude, you decided to be heard and so your tongue walked on water.
Living altar pieces applauding for you, for your last tirade.
Atop in your glassy, under His loving wing.
In the middle part of the uproar in town.
At night, acting as in a motel.
As we clock in, you show me the bullet of your throat.
The single 30-06 bullet fired from a Remington Model 760 you were strucked by.
To be pronounced dead because of.


woensdag 20 augustus 2014

White Snake

Grass sprinkles searching for caressing.
Swan's feathers strewn with liquid diamond mantling nature.
Body warmth whifting skin.
Interwoven waves with a tendency to wave until the self is numb.
This is us, severen from form, while planets move in our hands.
We lay on coaches that mashes us into its leather infront of empty screens.
Days before our face will wrinkle, when our nostrils saunter of snorting, let us have had secret loving revealing secrets.
Time travelling through telephone cells.
Fingertipping snails on the highway.

donderdag 20 maart 2014


Weak nutmeg scattered on my nerves.
I am too close to the phosphor dots, my hair is becoming dull.
An emission in my head of tangles of sea coral, spreading.
I am my own witness, of my own suction.
From my right ear, over my eye lids, to my left ear I am blue painted.
Bared black wet teeth staring at my fingers.
I lower the last measly piece of fabric off of my body.
The hyena mesmerizes me with its eyes.
Hypnotized with atmospheres of morning sun heat.
Aventurine stones creaking, ginger peels crawling, wings of incense.
A cloud of fire arises, illustrating.
I see clear crystal forming an untold truth, in the embodiment of a white stallion.
Shamanic drumming colludes with the galloping of the white stallion.
As I try to understand what I see, I become the white stallion.

zaterdag 30 november 2013


The truth is self renewing.
Sweating in mirroring keys.
Speaking of the world globe.
Round of checkerboards black and white.
So I play my lyre to dither through the ground,
to reach the sweetest grass.
When arrived, I jubilate.
I jubilate in bewildered fire with the most beautiful.
Moving as one in the pattern of braiding in the form of our terrific own.
Echo, echo.
Amid ponderously fluid vocalizing,
I foresee the unborn delivering.
The deliviring of legendary strong rhythmic groove of electric bass and drums.
Creating union.
Twenty five, eighty six.
Flying carpets, angel wings.
Howling wolfs, purified livers.
Every cell gathered.

vrijdag 20 september 2013


I am in the locus of locomotive televisions.
Vital anyplace.
Feet marching unrevealed.
I remain in one minute ago.
Halved planet wafting on a plate of braided grass,
Sway, sway.
First off I think of,
my last crowning.
Of powdery convulsions.
To simplify voltage.
Rowing silver through glory.
The chair purrs to me.
I nod.
Wrinkled mucus in the size of a smile.
Slowly showering in long licks.
Glass cracks in my feet.
A remiss brake.
Over the hoops of years.
The desire to be.
My desire to be redeemed.
Just have I realized.
To sew my untidy.
Toward ennobling,
I stand still in knowing.
I am in a locomotive television.

dinsdag 10 september 2013


Church bells,
beheaded sheep,
wolves howling.
Black fireworks.
I see double.
My head has become a hive.
Cords above,
from memories.
Big knots in nature.
From cords of her own.
Memory lanes of the ones split into two at once.
It is closer than ever.
Tiny holes in the palm of my hands,
retching through.
Its strong lurid scent satisfactorily drenches me to fading.
Kept too long from me.
My strong lurid scent.
The demo.
The beginning.
Once again,
on the highway in space gold lined to death.
Twenty five, eighty six.
Mummified white rooms in the dots I take in.
White cage lowering me down to land.
Thousand corners.
Padding me with every one's exposure to plethoric seclusion.
The medley of the addicted.
After my final moment,
decipher my spine.
Wear my teeth on your clavicle.
Change, marble change.
My third pencil's grey is freezing.
Glitters thrown,
smiles over coffee.
Where breath has not ever been taken,
I can  matter.
Imprint my last pip of salt in one cosmic wave.
Let the church bells jangle lustily.
Hanging up the phone, now.
Suppose I had further questions.

vrijdag 30 augustus 2013


The dandy offers in the archaic balletroom.
Fine velvety white wools through my nasal.
Animating the fire of my loins.
The extracts of French grapes,
and red wines of the virgins.
Sweet ginger syrup and
melodic rum.
Praise for the prince of the air to come.
Clothed in brilliant light, 
and masquerading.
He would appear out of nothing in the room.
Reversing time,
deluding rhythm.
To choose the peerless virgin.
To be the pearl of his dome near the dark river.
I would see the baboon, the cow and the cobra.
Beasts for ages unseen appearing.
To witness.
The disclosure of the luxurious, lucre of a woman.
Encore, encore. 
The space prophets obeyed.
Leaving through one door of cosmic dust.
To the elegance of blackness.
The mercurial reality of intensity,
where the essence of the structure of all that is form and formless.
Only left were the unchosen.

Also published here on Uut Poetry