...it's my Beetlejuice and not your karaoke dancing with a shadow and memories with whimsical pistachio green shells listening to the coffee pot's concierge paint mustaches on the ink well's clam sliding on the escalator without a destination it's my Beetlejuice and not your karaoke

in remembrance of Quasimodo with the breath of olden's short winds like unseen presence leaves of dead driven like ghosts fleeing bones of men with a little less chin and matted hair but the character of the man is in the treetops

...you are my caviar, pimento of soft red lips, no herring from Norway, just memories, quince of my despondency

In Cupid's secret queue of the early dawn getting the biscuits quiet as a field mouse pimento red dark roses essence dew drops sweet as ardor listening to silence dripping from the fluorescence memories dressed as ganglions under my skin listening to silence aged of philosophy in Cupid's secret queue of the early dawn getting the biscuits quiet as a field mouse

Cranking out the blues in Racine inferno's axing my Gitfiddle beams. Of dark's dilation strangling strings coated with morphine's cosmoline. Blinking twilight upon a dream when the boogyman screams. Cranking out the blues in Racine inferno's axing my Gitfiddle beams.

The keeper of my shadow in escrow, presumptuous of my pen's epitome. No more bees, wildflowers, or words, now footprints of places forgotten. In the sand, washed away by the tides, between the metaphors and the shoals. In my solitude with a broken silk fan, of nature's Hope Chest, dreaming. Twilight's memorabilia, whispering beneath the glass of fading neon light. When we were discreetly ghosts, and felt the pulse of the...

With shadows raining singing to treble nothing but silence with a fragrance of the Bathsheba rose and ghosts with pinions awakening seeds of the Hollyhocks becoming dreams of honey and tea with wings of bees fading thimble listening to murmurs of sympathy sweetening the cultured lox with shadows raining singing to treble

Haunting capricious shadow a silence grandeur to adore of darkness half-strangled kneeling at naked shores with love's restrained and a theatrical footprint beneath my door as my quill deploys as before a silence grandeur to adore

Sounding the echo of an eternal choir and shadow of loveliness in hourglass from the archives beneath the window of yesterday's forever-now memories in seance with the templars of nature listening to winds good fellow calliope and yawling sails of Autumn's mizzen

Neath winter's snow bones fasting silent moon and its coffin eyes with pennies in my cap weighing down the bogs of twilight's stares listening to the winds as they whittle from the wagging tongues of the willows a stone-cold breath of Mother Nature's gown as the moon lay buried sighing for warm fingers weighing down the bogs of twilight's stares

Beneath the coyote brown canopy of trees the hummingbird moth dance to the winds blushing in the moonlight a moment's will captivating the soul hidden in shadows a cousin from Heaven in summer's breeze of willow jumping jacks in my mind's quill a fragrance of sage vinegar to cleanse sins listening to the gossiping falling leaves beneath the coyote brown canopy of trees

Drenched by a rainbow of watermelon stains in twilight's marmalade gazing toward night on nature's patio with whisking cloud songs of shower's musical rain for scrapbooks and parasols

The stalk of your sensuous shadow, haunting, the carnal essence of my soul's absolution. Absolving my lusting eyes as I repent the sins of my poetic gangrene penned by the Tarot. In the dark shade of this Gothic cult the griffin whispers through loveless mascara, sotto voce, under breath.

Cold in this studio, sweet hypothermia with rigor's cummerbund. Curling around me coldly misty shadow, touching. Rising to the moonlight a little death-chilling. Laying me down in a land of dreams, spilling the skeins. Naked in my darkest dreams collaborating with 12 degrees, before freezing.

In the eyes of the dark now pale of the bark to be from the leaf of old mothers death hangs from the Tupelo gathering the thorns with the last breath of Autumn falling into the shadow of the veil in the eyes of the dark