Dead Mouse has a Handbag

Today I smelled like dust
Or is it the aroma
Of dank mop
From a cupboard
Where the captured form of
Wonder is a mousetrap
Unsprung

[With no cheese
And I've heard rumours in
Dead mouse has a handbag 
Chip chip chip (chip) 
Chip chip chip (chip) 
Worry not
My troubled mind 
You're on! 
Can you see the fuhrer's tight prepuce
It's in the tree
Why aren't you counting? 
What's that? 
You're not ready? 
I've seen you reading porridge]

It's sick to say the least 
The tiny footprints of the guys
Who come this way to fight a
Stranger star
Who would have known 
The register of written voice
Is written low in bull command
A miracle indeed

Finally I open the door to the outside and enter

Kindly remove your heart before entering 

The curator watched, the fields were endless
Futures flicked time to the 
Burning life
Where greatness larded absence
With thinking dried
From incident headings 
Stoppering the watched 
That see scatter the questioning 
Blade of our lovely daughter
A lark over mountain daffodils 
Because
If I could wish for anything
It would be to tumble whole
From this page pocked
With incredulous borings

Because of search criteria

Because of search criteria a lot of novels are these days born with dates on them
This is more than satisfying 
When monkeys dropped from the trees
Hand was fighting with hand
For the future 

You stuck forks in the river
We hadn't yet eaten
I am drifting in uncertain dreams
I am a chipboard of worries 
On the stream 
Soaking in
I am always becoming who I am not

Finally I close the door to the inside and leave ...

Here's a push, here's a pull (but you're on your own)

Expressing
 
I believe words as a conscious skin can breath new life into waking. 

Sometimes the sky is as light as a wafer and floats upward. I don't dream of anything and more. Inspiration wears the armature of errant soldiers. I am here. I am gone. My love coils glassed and silvered abstracts. I am lost both inside and out. When the dull footsteps are done the patterned leaves design an other road. It screams. The washers' chorus lends the boats that gently rock the river's ways a chord to ring the neck wrong waves astounding. I leave the mouth of the sky to straddle rocks and wear them away but slowly. Inside, beneath the polished glands of time are crabs, whose irritated mouths I wipe free of worries with a finger, gentle as rain.

Song birds know no greater gift than singing, their blue throats stretched to the wind. In the mind we damn ill fortune, would be pirates on the high seas were we not bound. I thank you seamstresses, washed oracles and grotesque roads (I don't know that I can write the things I want to write, so how then, do I know I can't?) I die in sleep, and paint my index finger with a blue ibis. The blue ibis is kindness beyond compare.

But I withdraw from fluffy birds
As I adapt to the depth of  
Creations penned from sleep   
Lint  
  
Sweets go naked  
On the table  
In our shop.

My life a tepid nightmare of distraction
  
My earliest recollection is of a lion-tamer turned back to written gold; a story begun in the father line tattoo. I afterwards inherited the rules of genius. When we were lying in bed I remember still a good tale you told of soft shelled animals encrusted with Chinese characters which contrived to relieve themselves in a wind pump but stiffened like freaks under blades at the first hint of danger: a scholar in the shade of infinity who would ferment the fat from their lips to experience unhindered communion with primate lore; who, on the eve of the bad dream, would allow them to deep scan the leaves of his garden, where silence projects earth into sky. "Dare you abandon your art on the stairs, where panic's observers can take its spines in their teeth and whisper like dreamers the curses they lifted from myths that are popular still. Up and down, from basement to landing and back, with heads in the grip of commands whose thief remains fatal obscure." On offal shelves the peeling worlds are trained for freezing. We've shed scales of being able: time moves upon our beauty, with its teeth unkind, to feel we hold the interests of all to heart, but no, the hands  that push we take to be as fathers to the flow are truly lying.