Simple Theories

stages flirt for stages in human response zone soothed of meaning with e labour ate motives frond-co loured whilst traveling the speed of night

  the time now to say Your chakras smell of hemoglobin please wash your  bangles the Town by which the numbers add and so the sluice defers  the place in which the neural meters collect like ‘Justin Bieber’ The basis of infection parlaying socio- contumeliousliness reverberating in the merest Baby  Such is the as phyxiating Quandary focal boundary

the poem in flame the natural voice of any word places the Town on fields of heather and gorse with Zeus the expected mightiest of big tantrums unrelated to nothing human  each word meets fragrance with a patch of fog

  He died by cause I will never learn. He died in a gap that remains.  He said nothing nor did I. The time had come and the day went simple. I see him in a bed and something nothing something. Surely something ought to something. Instead, he died, that simple part of that. Lexical things offer vantage, take it or leave. Sounds remain, green and long.

  Hair has something and becomes. A braid is one way, several braids another, many braids a wonder. Gather a handful with a stretchy thing. Pin locks in ways. Let parts or all be low or gone. Skin glisten if it can. Use product hold it tight, lifted or combed. Knot a hank and be done. Turn to colour, any colour a sport. A bandana for those times, a hat for those. Train it for curls or not curls. Be then in time with anyone else, explained as simply as the sky. The sky changes colour whether we live or not.

  Font the grey clouds for golf divots, the golf be Tween us. grass certainly grass, the old town and not new. the poem in exact in these terms, swaying of grass or leaves in trees. grey cloud some times clog some fresh news in town they drove to their rights in reading wrong, all night theory tracts of sp ace called minute by minute just to explain. those words in the poem seem enough but only time tells.

  Dear Time and All, The day grows rose scratches, succulent tomatoes, weird thru clouds from sun or what we know. Autumn asks for hay, apples, rising dark, and the beams of everything together. It doesn’t matter who does what but the season cannot be silly. Imperious moonlight becomes just reflection. The day makes a beat. Some of us tire from the simplest, tho gorgeous remains on our eyes. No room remains at the cemetery, long words lack effect. Because gloom seems idyllic, and Stone has such a voice, we make farewells seem frosty with spirit. We know we go on, even when the leaves in the road swirl without realistic import. The sport continues. Family melts into stone, stone so near. Drums tell. A flash of time and immediate guff. Winds weep the turning sky. Ghosts fill the cavern tho a sky of cantons seems insistent. Rocks carry voices, voices carry time. Small words tell rock, what we meant after all. Busted words meet in the end, and an urge to salute. Signing off as a friend...