George Murdock

I dream of you open like the pale Lotus flower
The petals of your nether lips moist with
dew drops of honey nectar
your inner flesh luscious and splayed
...

Speaking above them they could not hear me
as I raged and shrieked in tongues
my head was like a fountain
words like feathers floated down
...

One day it was familiar but not home
it had turned that way
while he was at work
the first thing he noticed
...

I fall into the green pools of your eyes
once again
like crimson tipped rose petals into a violent stream
rushed away from sensibility
...

I must climb you like a spine
revel in you like a yodeler in a cave
devote a continent to you
have no conscience about driving
...

Like any other changeling
She was waiting to transform
Waiting for her arms to curl into flaps
Waiting for another set of legs to emerge
...

Let me say this standing while I still have breath to sing
There must be a light somewhere that brightens everything
I try like someone desperate to light a fire of the heart
I strike another match and watch you blow it all apart
...

He looked like a good saddle horse
though his hair was long
and his beard three days course
she soon had the saddle on him
...

They left you where you had fallen
against your pane
like a sparrow deceived in flight
with your delicate frail wings
...

While bodies bloated in dark water
floated past news dinghys
W was making mincemeat
of Karl on the ping pong table
...

Think about this he says;
“Life is tubular”
I chewed and swallowed
and listened to the globular pipe fitter
...

There were song birds sweetly singing
and fawns beside a brook
all the while a mandolin elf
danced atop a book
...

Ariel

Oh troubled world what will be done?
What will happen if Ariel dies?
...

Bible Bob in his bib overalls
and his mid-chest beard
his bible and flag
went to preach to the prospectors of gold
...

The half-lit wilting and leafless white Birch
against the pink and gray Pinatubo sunset,
their fragile contrast to the skyline like haggard wraiths.
We sit on a cement bench on the shore of the artificial lake
...

The lots are a collusion of lawn tools
Rakes bark at sidewalks
Mowers ruminate, roaring in fescue
Pink flamingo statuary and black jockeys
...

An impression boils and vapor coalesces on a broad white leaf
Like the rendered nectar from a delicate dandelion
Brushed and vibrant cascading in the dawn light
Her soft silver hair tied back in a knot and skewed with a whale bone
...

There is no God in the death camps of Gaza
God has chosen to ignore the genocide
There are no NEWS cameras of the big three
None speak disparaging remarks
...

One day a wind will rise
from the furrows
of a barren field
and move through the jagged frames
...

His visage is that of a bristling sardine.
His suit the impression of wet scales.
His mouth draws rushing currents of air
across hidden guilt slits.
...