Giving my regards to the thin man in my dreams, twilight spills, like a plumage of dark ink spreading forming a slick sticking to the night's memoirs and periwinkle sky. Draped in black, like a crow leaving no token playing Aces to one eye jacks with death being my wild card, reflecting off the straight edge like a plumage of dark ink spreading, dripping.

these dreams, haunted melodies outside my window a nosegay of putricication boiling over the moon's shadow falling onto a barren land with no soul as muddy waters from deep when the mast is broken and the bilge is pumped by who... laying waste to humanity but the cicadas will soon die when they meet God

Through your almondine green eyes love me when the waters are still love me when the tides rise and the buttermilk churns beneath the gray skies of an Autumn's windjammer the falling leaves of sycamores love me in your anonymous love me beneath your cold stone while I am still living beneath the gray skies of an Autumn's windjammer

"With this ring", In the candle's light, I can see the shadow of a falling leaf in my mind's portmanteau the miracle of our day wed in gathering Twilight's wreath "to love and cherish" trying to balance the bittersweet as if a lonely heron in a shallow glass in my mind's portmanteau

Wikipedia says that A1 is a sauce. So we are under attack by a sauce? Which is short for Sausalito, a city in California. What does a steak sauce have to do with Artificial Intelligence? Can it spell Mississippi? I tried talking to a bottle of A1 and got nothing out of the one-way conversation. In fact, I had to look around and make sure that I wasn't being watched while dining at The Outback. I am more concerned as to wh...

It's your party bopping the gristle of sanctimonious heathens with no cover charge Hats off to the body-snatchers in delirium's sweet memories of intoxication Welcome to my hidey-hole of puddings and veins and hypocrites as Jesus resurrects Farewell you sinners forget the afterlife What awaits you is a kiln with eternal strife.

A thorn and wilted rose for The Apocalypse to linger and decay in the shadows of a herd biting off the throat with words inappropriate with the quill of a feather stuck in one's craw on empty pages hemorrhaging worms a bloodbath of Draconian shattered dreams of unconscionable lies swinging on the gallows with fragrant child of festering embryos to blossom in this desolate place in death's Masquerade so sweet my cadaverous...

The evetides rise on the moon scratching its eyelids of nature over the bones willow protecting the dead as the sinew of butterflies take wings sounding as if angels bringing peace taking notes on the lyrical quotes of spirits singing shadows over the sea neath the sky of desolate winds listening to the Hourglass cry as the rains fall more softly the eventides rise on the moon as the ensemble of the lords gather in Basque...

Living the poetry of my awakening, dawn's whiskey showers, stone-washed singing. Spending twilight in prayers as the laughter is contagious on life's gossamer wings. Rewriting the blue of green grass and trees that nature breathes. Touched by fingerprints of the wooded armoire. Autumn's scarlet reds, of blushing nude violets. Living the poetry of my awakening, dawn's whiskey showers. stone-washed singing.

To quiche is to love, more than a soufflé. A place to niche, a deep dish of memories. Naked as corn, when flour was in the shaker. To only grow old with you, feeling the quiche. Quiche me, Camembert, entering Heaven.

From Cliffs Notes, prayers in the abbey with the abundance of acorns caps dripping the dew of dawn's pekoe surrounded by shadows in dreams in its spivvy of nature's greenery touched by the monks of tall trees as the scent shaker falls the leaves with the shadow of the rising giving homely to nature and the Bonsai

Paying dues to the fortuneteller listening to your breath from speakers in my mind like whispers in a teacup taking refuge inside your dreams "Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood!" behind the shadow takers with your personalized keychain in everything that is talcum dark no glory in braiding my lost heart come sundown on the horizon lost in tequila among saguaros

With gothic melodies, peat's dark hole listing to twilight's pale shade of the saplings chaffed wheat and pallid hours, soundless tweet a tempest within my ominous sagaciously winging your soul, cold blows the midnight songs lurking the beast, in my am in the ossuary, poetic reverie rocking with Johann Bach squeezing squeegee of death's breasts giving me dickens nestled in your arms

...in death coming close, brushing the moon, my decaying corpse, to kissing my birth, laying down playing dead, with my fate touching my body, once the eyelids, in life wearing masks over my genitals, nothing to read, except for my obituary, dust drifting over my face, brushing the moon, translucent jellyfish

Among the dead, we are curious. We are haunted. You scream for ice cream, and we scream out of loneliness. Walking the halls of death leaving no footprints or shadows. At times tossed out with the trash, once scented, now lost. As ghosts, we have no pedigree or degree in philosophy. We fail to exist unless in someone's conversation about passing and leaving a Will. We feel no rain or April Showers. We are the weeds of the...