I LEFT MY WOLVERINE GIRL SLEEPING IN THE GOTHIC VAMPIRE RAIN.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
sunflower blamed underneath a battlefield of hearts,
soft peaches and sullen, below a hill,
in the bathed breathing morning,
I called out in a Heron's voice, against the mechanical rain,
with my salt ships and her face blessed.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
with wild flowers as her distraction, tear stained,
rain stained petal eyes false fired shot through with truth,
below the thunder's tympani clouds with their chords of suppression,
the gentle sweep of her blood blond hair, here in the quiet Gothic wood.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
where there's a caravan of stained glass overlooking the sea,
overlooking a beach somewhere, she swims like a fish through some sand blown relic,
where men carry their hearts on their sleeves, wrapped up in honeysuckle and onions,
down by the forest hidden jetty, where Satan's claws curl the waves,
they scrape to the shore a mixed tale of ozone layers, and topographic sea siren's and salt,
that land on the ladies shoulders, and then lost on the Spinoza wind.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
under the cheese bubble of the giant September moon,
among the Moth's entranced cloudless heat fired night,
where the blemished Grey snails feast on the hungover dump,
sweltering in the nemesis avenues where the drunk dusty throat salesmen walk around,
the girls cocktail fingers, and heffalump grease paint balm,
the suicide youngsters throwing themselves onto the electric bow tie of the afterlife,
over by the sarsaparilla bush, midnight black ghouls exchange thoughts.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
under a Frankenstein clock faced tower, with a green Malachi two pronged head,
who cooked my breakfast that hissed devils sausage, and a flyblown saucer of mead,
she Lie's by the drinking fountain with her black rosebud lips,
and her five O'clock shadow encased in a bygone white tomb,
with her child's ballet shoes in glucose, she dances steps that lay forgotten, with her pink Tu Tu in the rain,
and my hearts back with her in San Pedro, and her b-movie actress friends,
washed up like a Dylan's vagabond's thinking they just another cast of baby blues,
wrapped up in some Hollywood petrol habit.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
as sardines swim around the galaxy touching tails with fish skin texture,
and I'm down here close to the Sapphire dirt with a bayonet snail shell shimmering above my shoulder,
there's an ultra violet cat scratching the white menagerie day,
and no one will come to judge you, as you sleep in your magicians cloak,
while I live like some nomad fly that cannot find the door,
there's a children's clown in the corner of my room, dressed in my boyhood clothes,
I always talk with him and see him at night, when I wake up in the morning, I'm wondering where he can be,
on some Greek ship sand bar, or a kiosk on a Paris street, or sat by the willow stream, outside my house,
and Robert browning blisters his way through my mind, and Robert Graves sunning himself in Majorca,
with the stingrays in his bellybutton, and the angry miscellaneous ink salt air in his pen.
I left my wolverine girl sleeping in the Gothic vampire rain,
with the Andalusian owl moth's, and the don Quixote bats,
the airwaves tying their eyelids to the earth by sinew cords, flimflamming in the blue bruise breeze and
Halloween green feet, how fatal those moon eyes that stare at us through the clouds,
as we look heavenward, calling me by a name I have never heard of, while she sleeps on a carpet of spells,
and the warm honey of the Sabbath night en flames her morning casket,
the smile of the dawn sun with its leopard spots, shining through a prism in the distance,
she woke with the gentle mist forest rain, out of dreams and locked fears, she gave me a skeleton key.
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