The Aviator — Stark — When We Kiss Sliver Birds — Sightseer’s Poems
Every In The Fancy Of Flight — What Extremist Shall Harbor Him Into Tardy Lights; When Man Flys — What do his dreams remain to be? — As he clambers into the iron suit, — The silver bird — What remains to him as to be true?:
A-soaring is the veel to dime and switch, Therefrom But never in flight, the habit to run, He shall — Cannot be shouldered? Hackard to the arising, Wherefore Hanged fly above his naked lots, down below. Thereto Dime a dozen to reason, and he shall foreclose that — Just still Imagine him stationary, and he shall frock the station Underneath reconstruction —
Flock around his pillars, that house the most catching of
Refined things and automobiles,
Flock around that garrison of shaded
Expense, knotting to reel —
He shall have the back entrance closed back down on you —
The reasons quaint, Pitch and Shaked, You Belly the Driver, Yet his fortunes were already Sealed, behind cognitive brass, Diming a-double, on the bashed redded steel You Belly the Driver, Without ever broaching the pilot some;
The reasons quaint Are always unbeknownst that keep the veel close, Beneath a sordid shield, Rapping till the final Philia — The naked bicep ever twinging for The rapture of her naked deal — But always parted closer ever steel, to the vented road.
That is his hereafter To fly and gun it steel
The habit — baiting its flow thru’ The heathen reproach
Pointed to stifle, is the manner Of these three —
That is the imagination theretofore him, To image his flight in the irradiating sight
Of the spatial sun;
Good start,
Down below the huff —
The crux and the militants' doe —
Hurricanes A-festering on the sordid dreams.
The fix — could a fix ever be found?
Thru’ to the
Climaxing dive.
Prime to stark the breast,
Inertia — ‘Never!’ shall he say,
Though he meant it all the same —
A Susy and a Sally
A scream to the shaly
To riddle this mark —
Whatever the height he is falling from,
The paper shall flourish still,
Even to this machine hedging man-over-man.
Teasing only to the icy clouds,
Fermented in man’s ironies,
Tumbling evermore,
Back to his majestic wonderland
Of tie and fates — again and again —
This sight seems suit —
‘Hack, After man.’
Frail to his complexions
Busty to his obscene countered ejections —
Pish and the fancy are strong!
As his hotspur tells the well-baked and stolen
That the circuits are planned like their
Prick upon the universes widening bosom!
Such loudmouths would only gap their
Mouths further still, at his notice —
Might-cool, the sobering rhetoric.
Grapes for Sexy shapes — the fib washer.
That fine wine…
Deranged becomes the change.
“But hell, what must he do, but attend the party still?
Even if he becomes iron and weaponized.”
I heard him remark, thirdly still.
Ever instilled by such as he — a man.
Her empty doll eyes make this change a fraud—
A tightening of loosened thighs is the consumption of his
Desires, prime tonight though.
“What a memento!” he cooly sighs.
“Ah, man, further still!” I remark back.
Blunderkins and their loud wive — another marriage
Heeded to be had at another party.
“Such loudmouths, tho’ I happen to be able to
Play their part, so well, it’s cheek” — he will remark.
“There are two types of men that set the stage:
One that heeds the change; and the other heads the change.”
Pity for such thirsting pangs of hunger tho’…
Prime was it — the homely blast peddled underfoot,
As the air crosses and melts all thundering notions
Of jetting powers, erupting orange in the sky,
Within them-clouds, all but away —
It so seems to the grounded son, like you.
Man’s cross best hilted at the heavens starring face,
Just gleamed there, over the arising scraper and over
The entwinement of his bewitchment
To see the refine sight of the rising sun—
Ever was the desire to fly there?
Ever was it yours.
Ever was it mine —
Ever was it —
Above clouds and nearing his heaven; clear for sight.
Tumble me clear of all-electric weeds—
The iron blasted to suit —
Injecting therefrom the
Power that describes his
Own energy, to the scheme of things —
Harris and Hawk, you!
Jades the character O; so blue —
Heating so hast —
Breaking, ice once so — as his arms frail so frantically,
Plunging deeper into his mined heaven;
Tumbling like the son divided,
Purchasing his steel hot,
Tumbling ever still —
Once so — what he’ll find is what you’re beginning to see —
Awaiting naught, tickling the chance for aught;
It is a striking game, he bets his luck, watches his gut,
Tumbling ever still —
As he slaps the checker that recalls his faded just—
Plunging ever down till his mind has retorted
On the fate that he can’t confer on;
“Nash, is that luck?”
Hell, he shan’t abide but all to all,
He shall quickly whip, and refind—
His Station in the fallen — his place —
Plas-steel and refining detail.
Thumbing all over in consecutive pillar cries;
What does he say? What does he mean,
When the taxing burden of sleep
Unrests his dreams made by red steel and
Golden gleams that sharp rocket that molds his face.
He has no visible heart — yet the primed plasma
Is his offsetting over-arms; priming blue! Garrulously figured on his besuited chest.
Tinting ever redder — going ever golder,
He twists and buckles the inflation
On the dollar dime —
Humbling ever in the sky —
Tumbling ever still —
The adulation plastered on his pristine wrinkled face and eyes —
Surpassing all the beauty of any song
On this —
Tumbling ever still to the ground.
Thirteen words etched unto
The tidy foundation
Wherein we rest —
An iron chest, a stout breast, a hearty Haught
A taming unfought —
He’s the symbol of dreams
He’s the symbol of their innate fear —
Clutching all, firmly to all that puffing under their mephitic breath;
Falling yet ever in control,
It wasn’t flight the first impression said
Rather the tomorrow irreconcilable changed.
Man shall peer such peaks, floated upon his bands of
Flying steel.
Peering — peering — peering —
Jutting — jutting — winglets to a-go-ago!
Undulating is his risen terminus —
He lands ever still.
The pen — oh, fountain pen in its reprieve from,
The paper shall survive this newly formed,
All adulation viva the sketching feast.
So, is it so true if
The body is the ark to chest
When the reminder
Deems it an arch,
And slaughters him down
To a tardy rest;
Out of heaven, down from all skies.
Isn’t that the gutting sheep, luckster’s cry?
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