Poetry
David Hunter Sutherland

GREEN

She lacks the dominant axis and
steam to come around,
born to this fertile soil whose
mating lips breed personal scarcity and
supple breasts worship the graves
of our deceased.

It takes..... steam to come around
motivations long gracious folds
arms like god,
an emblem to raise devotion for
the mourning masses,
whose toys are plastic.
Lifes' vain attachments to a
jawbone, a splint, an ailing member,
whose toys are glass.

It takes....steam to come around!
endless energy,
heart-rending emotion,
and surrender to a God,
whose toys are flesh.


THREE SHEETS TO THE WIND

Missing the target,
worst case..
failing the sight,
of whether,
an ordinary persuasion
I am,
this vulgar man
or better,
ungratious - no doubt;
you say,
"what shame !", (my affections
consumes,
the far less to share.)


PAX MONGOLICA

And the wave,
porous to touch,
collapsed at your door.
The full dissolution, "OM AH HUM !", and
mantras of desperation, (heartbreak...despair),
spiral down an orbit near
a retrograde star.

Yet on a small scale,
Life coodles and croons to you,
from an atoms' gestation,
to the milk and manna of meal for a sun.
Our toss and turn dream Buddhas' tight subtle bodies are
muons that bind you in this cosmic soup of
strange bedpartners,
heavy velocities,
and ghost orbits.

Now affixed within this gaze, you sleep snug.
Friend to the ethers and comforts' raison d'etre.
Both, borders in a universe,
whose cause and effect portend as
loves' finest vision;
a vision of swords into shares,
sheaves into rain,
rain in your silence...
(as an eerie peace ensues.)


A BLESSED FIELD

In solitaire, more room
space between longing
a trapped breeze between breaths and
loves' repressed renditions,
where matters manifest as
slow inebriations of
Lifes' sudden chills
a wind that waits
to allow an-other.


AULD LANG SYNE #3

Dreamers are stripping a Fury
feathers are angels' half strung,
Mozarts' adorned in Bouves' jewelry
drinking and chasing a nun.

Remember the salt in the quarry
drill bits and thorns up the arse,
coiffeurs smoke bury the jury
polebears are many too one...

..We can't unfasten her buttons
we struggle succor, sweet sun
lord is a memory forgotten
Wheat pilfered, brittled or none

A stranger is wetting their trousers
I smell the smoke in her eyes
next time I share these same cottons
Jesus or Judah we lie

They're but a flash in the fire
and a flash in the fire, I know
are choirs sweet merry forgotten.. while
I simply cock, lock & load.

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