Thunderhead

(ia! ia!)        
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
 Sink mine eye into a deepening cleft        
 tasting the lick of an inking joke        
 where dystopian tendrils snort & sway        
 all dear to the rear of a freezing glow        
         
 as dust to wine by an aging grace        
 gilds or splints a prideful bent        
 across the sleight of a slithering lull        
 the red river swoons to a running moon
         
 stalking the talk of their hawking hoax        
 a crux of luck from the sparrow's gleam        
 as my headrush stares at the obscene crowds        
 way Up Here with their go-fast gone        
         
 a misty morning cruel (my hard-on clouds)        
 shirking in the murk of a dovetail bend        
 blasphemers amok in that fucking muck        
 & grating with a gaze that stands to sand        
         
 I stock on the beam of a wayward spell        
 a shadow in the swell of tolling space        
 where mimosas stroke to the sumac moan        
 & a current of rage still stays my tool        
         
 how it glistens on in my needful dreams        
 how it listens to the sins of the Sun in mine eye        
 & how deliciously curious for a length of heat        
 like a stake through the ache in your arching heart        
         
 we’re a cucumber-bruise on a September dog        
 a skin or a soul to lean on the laughing staff        
 or floored to the roar of a humid score        
 we are served to the Light of the Eyes in the Deep        
         
 hinterland magic beyond the greenway's edge        
 mumbling for your blood across my plotting mud        
 pokes with the voice of an itching wound        
 within the listless pull of a sweating grip        
         
 ever-danced the fool ‘fore a spider’s spool        
 caved-in the bray of a black corner splayed        
 gulping the gulf of gold from stone        
 on this twilit bed all horned-in-grass        
         
 a patch 'neath the thatch of a glassing half        
 lips on throats by a fanged-drip        
 down on the spray of my creeping thoughts        
 all grown uphill to a storming sight        
         
 slays with mind’s eye that deepening cleft        
 across the sky with a restless plight        
 & the desolate reigns (all torch & sway)        
 too dark for a lark in the spitting Sun.