it is rains residual

a hiss

from new grown long grasses

chirrups memory

from hoppers of deep discarded

poppy fields

where serpentine it weaves

to bug me

this hissing

inches wince

bringing lips to pucker

here

not for kissing

for these

lost summers breeze through me

from before such things

and as lips

pucker here

reminiscing on the riffing

of acidic drip

fizz in flesh

of lemonade

sold from our makeshift market

i remember

through the haze

and taste again

noxious sugars of childhood

spoiling me

before the taint

of all that poppy seeds

could mean

for the pain

Rick Dove (c) 2016

comes on the dusk

last mayfly flash of youthful beauty

linger blink

before

the first petal falls

where I see thee

calling

calling

my calling

calls

comes on the dusk

all slippy sidle slinky sashay

with this final sinking

incandescent rage

do not go gentle

into that good night

this norse ship lamp

and fetching light

playing

so bright

against the dark

comes on the dusk

the lengthening thickening spikes

of shadow snare

herewhere darkness blurs

and begins to blow

thar she glows

last post

as whispers on the breeze

this

is mortality

this

is the day to sieze

with twisted clarity

of fleshly lusts

the mezzanine

of mizzen me

stirring

where I see thee

calling

calling

my calling

calls

comes on the dusk

the magical mischief hour

as night becomes you

sneaky glower

on the east

we these ships

passing promissory

promising merry merry

and ne'er enough

cover

for the weaker parts of me

lost to the sea

comes on the dusk

where I see thee

beckoning long

again

and again

a mayfly blink

momentary

and gone

my reluctant muse

homeward shone

as dusk comes

on

Rick Dove (c) 2016

Around you

these clouds have meat

suspended in blood red skies

sunset spooled

to rolling boil

of fermented firmament cooled

catches the back of my throat

with suspended heat

of sorrow

where these words

of unspoken passion

settle waiting on the marrow of morrow

settle thick and sticky sweet

and taste somehow of home

these clouds have meat

condensed

soaked heavy with memory

with diluted blood

crying distilled

in which they sail the sky

dreaming of full lips to call their own

and a wistful tear

raindrop clear

on a cheek bone

high

Rick Dove (c) 2016

And you look at me

like i owe you

an explanation...

But the robs

make robs

now daddy

And the bots

breed bots

now daddy

And the robots

build robots

now daddy

And you look at me

like i owe you

some kind

of detailed explanation

of how our nation 

and nations

came to this

with the numbers

in parentheses

in loco parentis

these

whimsical recursions

that created this

how we came

to debating this

retreat into madness

we called progress

for there

and there again

the beast in us

loves

progress

and you look at me

asking

how did we

surrender it

that glitch in thinking

that makes us rich

that comes as itch

to never let us rest

until we make it

that made us fake it

until we made it

until we made progress

how was it

that we lost the wit

to woo

to be true to this

this life

we once sought

to rule

and became a slave to it

and the numbers that we pursued

and became as slaves to it

our greatest logic

so cold and so cruel

and you

are

stating we are

fools

as the robs make robs

now daddy

And the bots breed bots

now daddy

And the robots build robots

now daddy

And the end of us

is now

daddy

and pointing to your

desire for a time machine

you tell me

that the end of the story

should be creativity

and wanting to be

all

we can be

and never ever

surrendering

to our machines

in staying

in praying

in playing

in purity

in staying

in praying

in playing clean

you tell me

about my humanity

for the robs

make robs

now daddy

And the bots

breed bots

now daddy

And the robots

build robots

now daddy

And the start

of the future

is now

daddy

and you look at me

like i

owe you

some kind

of explanation

not realising

your questions

are explaining

to me

Rick Dove (c) 2016

Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,

Puffed through pursed lips, come high, to bate with this,

Every silence has music, and this is mine

As maddening space, now grows apace like

Kisses rained upon the face in manic tryst,

Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,

Too much, too soon to speak of, too moved am I,

Hearing inferred words under breath amiss,

Every silence has music, and this is mine.

In contortion’s convoluted thrall divine,

Nude in assonance so asinine we twist,

Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,

All words must leave you now her breathy lullaby

Nothingness is where we reside, in bliss

Every silence has music, and this is mine,

Made crazed crescendo tantric tied,

Unified passions leave our meanings stripped,

Shush, she says, with slip of tongue and trip of sighs,

Every silence has music, and this is mine

Rick Dove (c) 2015

offbeat enthusing

your notes stave off music

lines

you write me

after mischief

between sweet musings

passing up

of every

good boy

deserving

favour

Rick Dove (c) 2016

as she pretends to pretentious

in place of irony

all airs and graces takes

for favour's sake

coy and twee

edited clipped refined and sweet

nectar for mine ear

nothings sounding

deep

deep

she leaves

stewing cross hatched

h

dropped

t

but this nostalgia is not what

it used to be

and so

she bakes anaphylatic cakes

mandrakes

for sleep

adieu adieu adieu

remember me

Rick Dove (c) 2016

to capture a still life

best

she said

it would be necessary

to live

in the spaces

between

things

to define these

accurately

with passionate idealism

to know intimately

where

nothing

is

where it belongs

and how it holds

all composition

together

to get her

she said

a lightness of touch

must be essential quintessence

made medium of massaged

oils

sinking into skin as ink

to mark this space

without crude and sharp boundaries

of such

reality

she said

to give this

edge

we

need

space

and there

as we spoke

with each stroke

rose the vitality

of be-

-stilled

life

and somewhere

a wiser hand

drew

breath

i came to call it

Vox Dei

this ability

to write in a rhythm

that reprograms

the minds of anyone

and everyone

who reads

such lines

i enthral it

suggestion

cum mesmerism

cum semantic alchemy

blended in prose or poetry

in a thousand infinitesimal

symmetries

that work insidiously

to make the world

bend

to my will

people are obedient

people are malleable

to me

like words

you are

to me

like fatted words

plucked

and stuffed

and fit for a centrepiece

you know what i want

you always did

the march of ides

i’d

id

Rick Dove (c) 2016

To wear delusion, thick as winter cloak,

He masters deepest self and nakedness,

Extremist dreams and strongest breath invokes...

Earnestly robed he wove lines of this quest,

Measures his threads, of sense and life precise,

Patterns for each and every comely inch,

Exposed upon the beaten street of vice,

Regaled so golden, silky, bow and cinch,

Openly strides the scene, with cocky pride,

“Remember me,” he calls and cries, in vain

Soliloquy of growing child inside...

Now, in public dissected, stripped, remains,

Every silent reflection, caught, undone,

Will be, in time, a simple failure, come.

Perhaps in making such delusion real,

Over content, a style of truth reveals

Every extent to which the world is lies,

Made in beholders blinded, loving eyes.

Rick Dove (c) 2016