Jim Bellamy 1989



I am the tigron in the tears…

I am the ligon inside stelled spheres, and fear

Feeds two mad tree-falling starred tears,

And, loaded, we frown at a sea of minds




SOME POETRY C/O Dylan Thomas


(Influenced by, Altarwise by Owl-light)

Hearseward and after, in the naveward blaze,
The Nineveh of fables flapped its drunken eye;
Eden, wrapped in stammers, scored away its garden,
And, from down the hills, the linnet swam the high
Four ways of the mare, sat in its golden meadow,
With the metronomes appealing and the clifftops bare,
Flaring and rainy, where the appled widow,
Who is the honey spider, whose mastery is rare,
Fellowed her heroes and the driver of the fairies,
Whereby the nails of Nero slashed away the hair
And, ghasting, galoshed on a ruminative trumpet
That, transcending, beheld an angelled fin,
Capricorn and Cancer revolving in their antics,
Snide-shorn and pullied in the Zodiacal Ind.

Crime is time's saviour, the unit and the unicorn;
The womb that pares the bud lies sailored in the tears,
Knitted and steepled, where the humours of the lily
Ride and rise aside into the spinney of the years;
Child of childs and actor to the eyries in the emerald,
Adam and Abaddon drive the series in the flower;
Fuses flow from mammon, and macadamed and summoned,
Hero and Leander course down the ivory tower.
Hair on head and after, funeral or master,
Doctor to doctor, the chitters in the hour
Fly the banded cricket from mantis man to wicket.
Hemlock-hived and hymened, duteous come the owls,
With Boudica and Judas hanging from a crocus
and Romeo conniving in Hamlet's cowl.

First there was the theorist, rippling with Homer.
First came the purdah of thought and ideal.
First came the comber of the prayers that murder.
First came the bardic world of weals.
Now comes the horned and skull-chimed apprentice,
whittling the bull-bone as the cherry breaks,
Winded world appeasing, and the hornets in their gildings
Gashing and abashing into a cape of capes.
First came the theorist, rippling with homer.
First came the herald of the quietus in the mind.
Now comes the stolid and banished ram of reason,
And the winter in a sonnet that writes against the time.
First was the logic of sacrament and rocket;
Now the wolves of summer wreak away the spine.

What is the tumour in the shadow storming river;
The sidler in a sigh; the son of eagled gender;
Whose rough fearing shall the hills surrender
To the timbre in the valleys of a wheat-shut eye?
(Wraith of phallic age, the astronauts dissemble:
Bubbling in their hate, the mortar men blow out).
What is the member in a supranatural whimper;
What the angel, what the wrangler, what the changing lout?
(Wraith of phallic age, the astronauts dissemble:
Music loses vision and the coiled stars dry).
What mad mammal love is the needle in a candle;
Which maternal measure hales the phaser in the sky?
(Wraith of phallic age, the astronauts dissemble:
Bibling in their wrath, the mortar men throe by).

Mammary of ashes on a scythe-scorned razor,
He who raped his mumma has a zen-skeined thigh:
Spurned by molten manna, the wick of whorlds in hammer
Anvils at the sun and rakes away the eagle's pry:
Out of crocks of nowhere, from the tides of crow-hair,
Mystic thrum the fillies and the aimless damsoned shies:
That mallow come the sparrows, marrow must grow fallow
And chaffinch with the mimics of a warbling spy:
Mary, virgin eyrie, must be scorned in theory
That the fields of adam may smelt the semblers down:
Hags that bless the lady must be burnt from maybe
And the cryptics under ridgewood scorn away the town,
Oven-head colliding and the trills of women bridling
Banished in the pumpkins of their all-too-zealous crown.

Now sing hosanna for the fairies and their lammers,-
Let the bauble breeder be sirened down to sound,-
Past all riftward fate, set the shearer on the plate
And the head beneath the rosebud underground,-
Sing! now let the rod of Nineveh vibrate
And the hellcats in their sulphur, socketted round,
Run the rousting death of Helen anti-cherried;
Come set the thrillers free that the metronomic sea
Can tarnish; now sear that the ravine may not flower!
Doom inside the skull is the slit of timeless murder;
For rune and moon aside, god's heroes run aground;
Blown out of skull, god's caverns come to master;
Man and man aligned must fry to spare the town;
Doom in the skull is time's maficient martyr.

Crime is the wending demesne in the garden,
The weaning whoop and the nature of the trees:
Crime runs blindly, crime is certain failure,
crime holds the gallows and crime bedims the seas:
Bent like the willow, hurdy-gurdy minnows,
Plashed in the transept, sweep the sirens round:
Crime runs madly, crime unlicks the lady,
Crime roams Eden into a hovelled ground:
Bent on coming into a world of nothing,
Bent and bent again on running evil's sound,
Crime is the traitor, the wrangle and the satyr,
The sallow rage and rave of the ebbing lounge
That rocks the rotten crucifix demented:
Crime is the Herod in the tiers of time unbound.

From the high hills to the crescent in the window,
From the oracular to the whittled verb of days,
Out of a centaur came the horseman's pedal
That rode; out of summer there came a stave!
And time lay roofed in nettled groves of metal,
High and slandered by, on a kettled rose of graves,
Rhythm all-appeasing and the active word of searing
Shining down the hilltops and into heaven's laves.
Clockhands spoke to manna, were rented of their stammer
And turvied round the handsomes of the haloed law;
Nineveh decreasing and the musics in a ceiling
Gliding out of sight into a revelled raze of ore;
Time dying and water flailing from its daughter
And signing on the line for crime and all its yore.
Let the graveward tailor lie naveward with his furies:
Chapeline and maidened, may the bastard sailor split:
Chanticleer is weathered! now let the rotes of pleasure
Rake up their seagull gears and angle into pit:
Crown of dawns and thorns in the angled spawn,
Chanticleer and weather redeem all fulsome hates!
Green is the beginning and green is heaven's ending;
Greenly wharve the waters and greenly spoil the lakes!
Green is the beginning and green is heaven's spleening;
Greenly wharve the towers and the harvest under fear,-
Toward the lap of fate flow the furnaces of Israel
And searing come the scars of the all too empty tear,-
Crime is neither manna nor toxic turning steeple,-
Mannawise, the word is as poisoned as a sphere.

Now the hymns are written and the law lies fairied.
Ten magnetic fingers plant the heroed ground.
Heaven lies contrary to the hellfire and its prairies.
Rhyme and tide alike hereby entreat the sound.
This is the hymen that opens for The Lady.
Heralded by trumpets, the jonquilled angels sing!
Heaven on earth is what the preacher's story
Rides upon this world of seraphs on the wing!
Now the hymns are written and the law lies fairied.
Ten magnetic fingers plant the heroed ground.
Heaven lies contrary to the hellfire and its prairies.
Crime and tide alike hereby revile their hound:
And life, as lovely as life itself is lonely,
Charms the sacred snake and snaps its lowly crown.

Crime is state and crime is molten master.
Suffered by the seas, the flight of crime is round.
Flare after flare, the hymnals in the chimneys
Ride the slaughter boatmen into haloed mound.
Crime is state and crime is molten master.
Suffered by the undead crucibles of fate,
Crime and tide alike row madly through the pasture.
Flare after flare, the hymnals roll and rake.
Crime is state and crime is molten master.
Crime steers the orbit that makes the sirens bang.
Crime is both a master and a cryptic fastener.
Crime and tide alike trip greyly through the sand.
Crime after crime, the runes contract their sentries.
Crime after crtime, the sentries clasp the hand.

The voyage is over, the naveward blaze distracted.
Razed from darksome waters, the ship of time is troved.
Snipped from the decks, the wrecks of blood and mortar
Wind their rending ways into the hillside's lobes.
The voyage is over, the naveward blaze distracted.
Crime after time, despising heroes smile.
Snipped at the decks, the wrecks of blood and mortar
Wind their rending ways into the hills of bile.
Ended and after, opened by crime's closing,
Dowsed and regaled come the jewdrops and the rain:
Crime and tide alike float wryly and reposing:
Hammer into anvil is the music in the brain.
The voyage is over, the naveward blaze distracted.
In the sharded hills, the ships of reason flame.


(Influenced by, Prologue)

this grave's grinding know how,
in torrent and saline slide
on the grooves of a hooveward glide
in crime's rolled and racketing mind,
on a raging spire of rock
angled with the angelled clock,
aloft, sired, spinned and rilled
as a river on the loot,
by drummed and skippering sand
with a riveting sky in hoot
in each hull and helm of man,
flows gladly; sure in hymen
and cackled with time's keel,
whose showboats lam and peal,
ganged and leavened in their joys
that, stabbing, knell a bell
that chimes from the wrecks of a well,
eternal in their glaze
whose angled cities climb
and floam the flowers that hatch
in an arced religious grind
of helmethood and war,
awed peace singing and the wards
of stranger and manger thronged
like a burning and manic song,
the pyres of words in a spin
and the world of fires as finned
as mary and her burning ground,
out of which the sea gunned eaves
that star along the pall,
like treasons in the reeds
that boom in the clinkers of a seaweed,
gyre into the key drummed light.
siren and seedhorse siring, and the ships
of coast and ovum, lyring like a pew,
pollenised in the waters of the black
and rumpled briars of shade and shape,
for poetry alone, crime flows and breaks
like molten mania in the hand,
glory alive and the serried trees
roaring in the bud that is best
and buried in the cables of the west,
herod angels warring, and the rooks
of fish on fin flaring in the dark,
where, god knows, the ark of crooks
thrills to the floods of spring,
outelling, heltering, surgering ahead
as if possessed by the lordalive,
rapine and rumbling in its streams
with a wound and croft devise.
Ho! there, in muscled skies,
where blood scars float and beam,
the flickering gates of eyes
run the demons out of bed!
Lo! on a scrummed wing,
now how the demons brook
and marry to the mandril dark
with angelus and book,
coastering their flyward quest
through blue note and nest
down to the rainbow's man,
who is yet ape, who is slow as late,
as he sleeps, as he dictates;
hey there, on a sly hill, black
is the whistle of abaddon's hue!
here now, drear now, crime's red ship
bangs in the fangs as she bites,
(a clash of cymbals tolls the greed,
a son of mutiny, the need
of the angelled mall),
yet animula shall not cede
a halo to the hymen's ground,
(all hale the son gone young in the wind!),
time who weeps is good and thin,
mad and sure at heart! the strong
huloos of the stars are wrong
enough for the strangled shore,
and the charms of the templers are in awe!
ah, soul of favours, with your spined
drill of ash and quill, what a match
you might offer this moonshine
and the rippling spies of the grey:
with hilted nail and cell,
though the mounds in hell
are yet alive with decoys,
through the turning of your spiels
and the mongers in the fields,
yours is a paradise of dens!
under the stars and their hands,
under the multisonous larch, mute
as the pink of the land,
samphired and sporraned in lud suit,
like water we came: from hill to hill,
our sea-shorn nineveh broke like rocks
and, ahoy!, the chain-legged locks
shot along and sired us, fast as rhyme,
into the singing of the holy lie,
which, entired in the store of a cry,
floods in the galleys of a grave right now.
Weathered as pleasure, this world of angelled leisure,
in the fields that are young and flailed in their lease,
melds with the spheres and the tears in woollen gear
and the earth that is cold and older than peace,
and calls to the spiels of the milk-white weals
that turn and turn in the wrecks of space,
where, out of a prayer in the lochs of a lair,
time in its heaven frolics in the east.
Stars, glad and serried, slow and cantilevered,
moons, spumed and holy, here refrain to spires
in the mansion-burning house which, quiet as a louse,
scuttles greyly down to the kingdoms of the town
and graces the faces of the furled;
in a flume of a spinney, the earth, enstoved in pinny,
runs madly into the combs of the bones
that rattle for the idylls of a whim.
Safe and smooth, this world of moans is grooved
in the sadness of the caves that mentor the slaves
of the sea that is lowly and pretty. From
the sides of the bees to the centaur of the trees,
may this worldy love now be said. Ah!
may the emperising soul in her mantis-levered roll
snive swiftly into the eagle's breeze,
and may the law of golden, grating yore
be lashed upon the sequins of the holy.

Night and its minions on the clouds above the pinions
in the glassed and gloaming canteloupes of fears
takes the world vermilion into the world virginian
and raps the bad hands of the flashing, floaming weirs,
where, in the camplights of the soaring, rapine bellemnites,
crushed is the cobra in the regal brain -
now may forever this eremited weather
crack the colonel coda of the endless brain.
Burning is the night: night and day is might:
burning is the kestrel as she mallows high!
burnt and burning yet are the fallows in their debt:
burnt and burning still is the tawsing sky!
For a spatial place, shall the menstrual sparrows pace
and the eaves of the trees that teeter, glide?
or shall the wicked rich and their wicked evil niche
come tearing at the widows in an eye?
Haygold as ermine, love is regal vermin,
as this haloed house is emptied of its birth:
the mouse, sour as souse, crawls into the mouth
of the catkin tree, as seagull visions storm to plea!
music of effluents, that the heavens may be regiment,
now may the sindling spider turn
and web the sidling heirs of the peerage in its nave,
gaspish as the silver in its urn!
And naked and forsaken lie lineaments of raping:
not a cloth is spared in the plunderments of time!
nobodaddy sits as his nowhere battle shifts
from trendlessness into an end-stopped crime...
Now what for the world? as in heaven, so in death,
so in the cradling of the blair-club under arm,
and jesus, as he splits his mental daughter's kith,
briars muddily into its mortared calm.
For faith I must sing! for the worded cur of wings,
this whirl of words must be my charm!
no winnowing be mine, nor any brightness blind
these foams of mortality, nor any second mind.
For I have feared, have feared for loving's worth,
have stretchered rainbow's end with christening blood;
now may this earth, as in heaven, teach no birth
and the leadenness of living fall behind.


(Influenced by, It Was my Thirtieth Year to Heaven)

it was a torrid year in heaven -
rooked by the searings in angel basted pools
and the shy, sly wallowings of the leavened
and occidental arbours of the spheres,
the dawning, warming, arose,
with the seraphs playing and the cherubic world
rocking in the priest kilned labia
of bible and brook, ocean and spire,
where the druid fathers, crooked on crooks,
baptised their ancient fingers in the mire.
heaven began with the wafered
winnowings of birds in the winged trees
singing the lord into flame,
and the day rose and the sonshine showered
on the broads of the weevilling hills,
beheld by the mutinous padres
whose lone and loitering lives
lay smattered in the nucleus of time
and burned hedonly black
on the souled expulsions of the moors.
with a ramful of rivers rolling
with the clouds and the lakeside flushes grooving,
with the curled lochs and their teetering mirrors
coiling and casting hellfire to the wind,
on a rill's shoulder, with a pearling
whirl of metronomes and glaciers whooping,
here mad heaven began,
where the fond climates and their haulering swingers
balanced on a gun
and brought the holy law into being.
gnarled rain over tutoring evil
and stuttered manna in a church of raves,
with the pert priesthoods gurning
and the worldside gusting up the graves,
out of the guardens of slingshot summer,
out of the blooming cathedrals of accord,
time went rambling idly by,
and the lord above was metalled
in the seminal rogues of the spined
and flair-beleaguered weather,
and the world swirled and the mirths
of the blithe and bibled country swam
for the altared ides in the stream;
the stream that sprang like an orthocoptic beam
of god on this earth forever,
with mandarins and pears and redulent currents
and melingering whorls of quincering wheys,
and a world of angels and their harp-stung
missions burthened and brazened
in the natural hearts of a cousined nave,
and the tightly blazing birch tree,
that is the fear that burns on sermoned cheeks,
gashered now and furnished
the moving stone with grace. these
were the woods and the rivers and
the seas, where heaven gnawed
at the roe toes of god
and the splintertimes of the dead whispered
up and out against their truthful joys -
space and crime were hereby sistered.
and there the light could babble
in the ladied weather that span around,
and the rude boys on the lung-red hills
could gabble in the virgin mary's streams.
it was a torrid year in heaven,
and the heron flew as the falconers sang
for peace on this biblical earth. Oh,
may the lord be fine in his mad truth
forever as ever becomes
on this wry note in its seminal suit
that is forever the Sun.
(Influenced by, A Poem on His Birthday)

on the fulsome run
from stalwart quiver and stuttering gun,
where the fusing muses flood
in a worded cave of bickering fires
and bastardising birds,
this world of christ rent bays in burning
blasts and cedar wood storms
an earth of lordly raves;
plectrums strum and spurn.
before and upward go
boulders, beaks, on their graveward trail,
where music spears and breaks,
with angels too loud in the scuttering waves
and reefs recoarsing home
and the caped baptiser in the churning foam
who soils his pen with paper
moiling forwards into the rented sun,
heaven, haled at heart, a martyr.
in the mill of the mind,
deeply sat where lillies reap and pare
this lord sings for light once only;
seconds stop, and eagles flair
in the clawed and saline tears of a life
that is aligned with the babyhoods of spheres
lowly turning; tall fissures gyre
and through the cribs of spectacles
the hawking virgin sprees
with the heistlong temples churning
and the world at zero waving into prayer
and the curves of heroes flowing
whose laving crucibles boil the air
and shuttle roundly down
into sweet silence, where the stars
climb spineingly into their eaves
and on, as pleasure kills
and crusades for the heavens spurning.
in a black chair, strung
from the strings of jesu's art,
in a wave of violence, ripped and hung
by the galleons in the ark,
by hook and crook, time's jesters vie
for eventide, for wholesome streams,
as chain and halter cuttle round his dreams
and shape a millstone for his neck
where demonic roses briar into screams,
and eagerly he grows glad
in the duckponds and ninevehed weed
famous as the fabulous and mad
for whom his pageant bolsters into greed
and drums a tune, where fishes fire
and golden arrows colt into the locks
and parry the zion-sidled wires
that drag the lakes for the christened smock
that is, at once, an ocean.
and there this lord might be seen
to shine with the spirits as they fold
along the nordic bays
and the marrow married eagles
and the goslings in the pyres
and the fistering crooks of the cocks
who rise from satanic shires
and call the crimes of day
that are leaden with the divots of the dawn.
And heaven is so far away!
god, on earth, must murder quite alone
with all his crucifiction staid
and his communion hotly droned
like a sermon; how the day
revels with the sinners is applombed
by the dragglings and the ragglings
of the all-too-latent thinkers
whose visionary gabblings must ignite
or never sight the air
nor the heart-caped angelus
whose glowerings are as harped as crime
itself: O, let this world
tarry with the lord and his rude nativity,
with the vowerings of children and
the powerings of time; now
ever may this voyage of angels be swathed
by the fables of a dying mind.

(Influenced by, It is a Winter's Tale)

it is a dead nativity
that the burned, blind berries stand serried on the trees,
and the scuttered, flittering fields in the rafters of the grail,
and the angelus that floats in a spineless, furling sea,
with the nailed crests of children raining on the dales,
and the priesthoods raving madly,
and the swell smell of snow within a wood, and the taraway stars
warming down upon a wombless world, and the booming babies
harpstung with the maidens whose wildness floams and scars
in the bullring laid bereft by the oxened lady.
once, when the lord rode lowly
on a cloud of bitter butter pure as molten lead,
as the food of god was lovely, a flare from herald angels fell,
where, roving gaily, the scrolls of fire burned up their beds
and tore across the crucifixion's cells;
and there, in the sun-slicked fields,
burning then as now, the tyrelit, crazy isles
of jacob and his sandalled ladder roared and rose and fell
from east to west, across a fairied, occidental smile
that combed the crypted yards for angelled drums
and clanged back dearly,
with the cattle purring and the rousering cats alight
and the scuffled birds and the spheres of music clearly
varnishing into the beards of night. Oh,
the maids of molten minions lunged in red delight!
and the lord set forth and strayed
in his mused career: in the city marshes, levees, and
the banging nights on the hill, he strayed
and shaped a roman rhythm from his ovum-pealing hands
as time, ignobling, bouldered up the graves.
but only the wind sang.
the hunger of the birds was thrilled into the swording spine,
and the waters, crossing, crushed upon the holy lungs
and brought the curs of eden into nether, knocking crimes
that none could spring. No,
to deliver, to be slaved,
in losing life, the lord above must always seem
as careless as a warbler! how the mazy, granite grave
crashes round the mind and breaks its native scheme
blows maniacally back against the world in nave
and yields no prayer!
and the minstrels, who, once flowing in their regalled song,
pared the ravens down with the runes of open love,
and the weals on the winds of the glowering and strong
who, once certain, aspired to hand in glove,
and the passion of the floaming
ecstatic scream that hires the word above;
none, nobody here nor elseways, could save nor shore nor
restore the love of jesus to the buds,
nor the war of loving to the grievance of the good.
but the red wings are raised
and the carved limbs of spiders throe and flock -
webs of age on moving stones are spun and always spurned
and the cancer in the oat of sin is defrocked;
and the heavens, burning, furnish into fens
the simple words of immortal stains -
by the spit and spermazote that heavenwards turn,
the soldered fire of festive, nippled loving reigns. for
he who wharved the waters in the gallilean seas
and plumed the depths for the miracles of spirit spires
rags and drags the dervished devil round
into the summits of the golden and accidental pyres. for
he who took the sky as his keen and vestal bride
and floated on a cloud and scaled god's aspen tree
is here purported by the revels of his eyes
and crashed into the ashes
of a stealed and burning mission. Oh
ide of idol vision and burnishing, banishing break,
in the noosed spheres, how lovely love now comes
who has sought out the saviour for the heart's intake;
how lovely comes the native on the run.
(Influenced by, The White Giant's Thigh)

in rotes of ash, where starlarks sweep,
beneath the grooving stone of hawk-held graves,
tonight the rings of david reap
as barren as the flashes of the womaned naves
and labour after love is murdered gladly.
in rotes of ash, where starlarks sweep,
the children stamp and weed for peace,
whereby the kin and kith of night
gargle death in the fields too bright,
and alone in the furied mystic tracts,
weaving their wreaths for the millstoned sun,
weeding for peace and friendship unto none
in rotes of ash, the rings of david stun,
which, once lowly below the golden bowers
in splintered reputations and balmfuls of flowers,
took to the sail and cruised the devilled smile
of sealion and sealer, and the snaffelingered guile
of the lord above, constrained: how the veins
glistered and gluttered in courted, champagne lanes,
or twined in the box of the mutton-bloating womb,
is here untold and ever shall rethoom
as the gaspings and the graces of the dreams strike doom
which, once above a time, were knighted.
time dies, and the dust that was flesh is stoned
in the flaring creeks of the idol underloamed,
and the lights in the eye are spreadeagled by the cry
of the druids in the warrens undergun ,-
for rough as acid tongues, the semen that benumbs
is here hob-railed and riven into drum,
first stippling, then becoming as a sentinel to coming
that hales the heartless halestone of the golden fleece.
once, below a mind, king david and his fine
felony of men took highroads and ordained
a scurrying in the cellars of a life,
(and what a cellared life it really was!)
more, buttered fatly, bounced on bosomed bridges,
with their hearts full of seed and
their whorl of words in oathish definition,
did these bad wives of david in his pride
kiss the shippen lips of the long dead winter?
the lust in the dust and the metals in the crust
swim from whim to whim, in a copulative spin;
the fawkesire briars and their contemplative mires
battering from church to the fairied style
round and down to the feasts of flairing sound
and the clause in the moors that snaps the cistern mane
and claps with the sineless dreamers underground
in the spineless fens, as the rings of david maim
each tawdry, spurning transept under wreak
and the caul of god and the collical of sex
and the shapeless oat of the ship of galillee
and the clock with the cock and the casuistry
with the holy sum of the summer undergnarled
as haloed as the heroed serpent undersnarled
and the evensong of the aaron underblood
and the hymened kiss of the sister bust in bud.

1 more songsheet!!!

Wow, what with youths, nudes & cradle-vice
We must live upstairs
Wow, what with veins, dudes & candle-Christs
We must live in hairs
& we make up sin from skinny heirs
& we see a summer of lice
Dreaming of a vaginal sea-height
^& the lords of green Hell
Hang loud tocsins from a funeral bell?
The god of chilled winter summons
Ivy-bines & radio sirens
& the cods of quickened diamond
Daub a dragger with alarms
& the screens of saviours harden
& the wolves of windows
Shadow feral taxicabs
Ambulant idols pray where sin
Casts a crab upon
A tree of murder; O, as the sun
Streams from deadened guns
Then mandarin currencies strum
Washy city guitars,
& we smoked all ruddy year
& we choked on a bald tear
We must live in hollows &
We must hear sex break?
I stood against god’s jeep
O, I lathered after gem-sleep
& the countries of my mind’s heap
Combed a busman’s leer
The wives of woollen dew had
Impassable rings
- The widows of old stings
Cut a hairnet from Hero’s dad
A time bomb had
A city’s flag; & old sleep
Sent us to dreams of
Islands & cabs
& the wives of the dew saw wheat
Crying, crying,
The first fruited face we had
Dappled under Dali
O the fierceness of space
Cut us
& we fell into the moon
& the sandmen of the mad
Rode us unto Sunday
& the doctors of our tune
Rode a dilly space
I espy a cold tent
O I sleep out in a star
I espy a soft mint – ah, as my car
Carries donuts West
Then diaries will teach the poor
& dairies in a hill
Must read our wills-& starred scent
Leads us to blue water…
The side of a mill has eyes
O the birds in a frill
keep sties
& when once mistress Aladdin
Drops a can in the rain
Then we supper after Paladin
& whispering skeins
Play pool with dollies
& a world at one out-grabs
Daughters of teenaged brollies
Factories harvest old women.
Nunneries arrest rolled children
& odes to god’s navel
Dig steps with bestial eye-cradles.
The wags of stairs are filled
&, la, the rags of prayers
Are wrapped in sylvan snares
& we swore for men
& we fed heels to hens; & moon heirs
Chauffeur Monks unto
A green space where May’s shoe
Hobbles against pierced blued
Bodied stasis
& a junky in a bed uses a metal bin
& the pigs of aces
Grunt for spunk!!!!
Get off your horse &
Drink your milks
Get off for the force
& drink hot silks?
Millers weep for fire when spun wind
Swirls, swirls
Get off your horse &
Drink your stilts
Get off- Lo- cum let reflection
Dazzle prunes with sand
Lo hear now a cocking horse
Swelled up by the juices of the city
Oo give a good hand
To the gal on the piano
Let wisdom suck yon island?!!!
A wizardry of widows weds the body
& the body bountiful listens to diddy
& a mean green mummy body
Drives a sitar
Under churches, where ova under tar
Sink fish beneath
Stinking crocus cigars
Aqueous beauty paces
O old viscous ladies peer from laces
& blind blondies
Brag for mirrors…
We awoke with a mean start
Then fell into the rain
& the rest sucks a jam tart?
Uh ho ah ho ha
Uh ho ah ha ha......
Copyright Jim Bellamy 2019...

yes?! (a song)

yes, with a loud mister for my female game
i ask you, What now for the cars of Man?
yes, with a proud sister for my feline name
i ask you, What now for the cards of
intricate modellers.

faces under cliffs hit a bowl as dyed dogs
dangle flashy tails from
brutal sweat sails
ah once above my mind, a flaky gun
shot my falon ankles to small bits - O, drums
scutter when
odes to Saint Petra licks clips
& old children outbrab old knicks...

inside old radish-rills, we study how to cry
& Aladdin's heat rubs a breasted lamp O, sky
drawls about the bit trip of
teeterting tits O, a vanished God
cuts a coned fruit from an oval oven Lud-,,
yes, we will hear garage guys groping gourdes
yes, we shall smear meringue boys under
worded whirls of rape & tribes
&, lo, as stations meet, then old pigs asleep
will surely winkle after daddy dust...

ahh ahhh ahhh

as i ride to sleep, i swiften a soul under cars
,as i ride, i dream of county sleep
&, roped, a cab of lions hires silks from
rodeos of romantic greed-guns...

woken weepers under dance cry, cry,
awoken reapers sunder a danced slide
& a dune of meat hears lies
lending dukes to red waters...

yes, yes, yes - a boy who smells of death
must dally inside cells of sex
yes, yes, no-
matriachs of cocks and crows
will writhe, writhe
weedlers weeble after Mars?.

Goodbye. Goodbye
ah mien!!!! See Less...


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