DanielRayThomason

winter walks a vintage pale, leading Calvary to the Golgotha’s golden high beam seized in a heavy veil of aromas numberless upon the sunrise, the luxurious whisper of life, whose yellow air blinds the snow eternally, to walk as winter as one is to die for the disorder of poetry, ah!– “Do not fear!” its winds once told me when it rippled in and out my window, as is to whistle through a cigarette’s rim; allowing paranoia to lift up the wall and fold itself around the mind, like ash trays for the soul, or hearts eroded by the wind: exhaling empires out of emptiness — is that not a mind at work?

The clouds are chariots of mist, gently parading past the twisting turnstile of time, surrounding the sacred valleys on 5th street where paladins observe omnipotent mimes pulling atmospheres out of the wellsprings of some lucid abyss. I wandered this valley like tumbleweed, shaking hands with Fitzgerald’s many gin bottles, and serenading Keats with a nightingale’s scream that resembled Wilde’s echoing, Ireland wit; unsure of my cause, but willing to travel, for I saw my wanderlust queen on top the moon’s saddle, and I knew she approved of this Plutonian dream, for women bow down to interim grit. Huck Finn was there t

“Our sages cannot marvel color’s dreams when kings invade the earthly heaven’s gates with pages painted grey in paper seams plucked carelessly by the faults in our fates.” If I were granted life’s prestige bouquets, a fair parade of rainbows folded tight, would I devise a plan to paint them grey or pluck each petal’s shade that favors night? –The question writhes like weeds, encompassing all reason, tame emotion, logic, I, and sanctions blossoming chromatic kings that glisten faithfully along dead sky to vanquish blossom beacons, screeching lights, and strangle answers with immortal vines. So I attem

Ah—sky’s a palm that bends the world in forms; A form contrived to conquer Plato’s slants With feckless, rapturous, instinctive scorn And gaudy, picturesque horizon rants— The grayest gaiety imposes thrills Of idol ebbs with airy dyes confined . . . Where?—Lux! The palm perusing eye instills An atmospheric form to tame the mind. Deciduous, inspired palm of clouds Caress the kissing grey of mankind’s gaffe, Where Plato’s tongue philosophize the shrouds Of barren cosmos flawed on time’s behalf.     The sky will cast a gradient of swoons     Till raptures trickle down the heaven’s wounds.

A man will vex a hope with hopes that drape A muse in modern clothes and wanton hide, She masquerades across an eye’s agape Secluded ballroom floor where trueness died . . . She replicates romance’s maxim flux With taunting twists and dainty dips in-depth, The floor is hers; she stomps to stamp a crux Inside assailed eyes where threats protect . . . A comely muse deceived the man in trance Whose tattered tongue besought romance’s shy Imprudent, expert, sterile, spacious dance Where passion’s boon did drown in tragic eye . . .     A masquerading muse will dance till men     Eradicate their masks with truth and pen.

They are a single file aircraft--a wandering few--conjuring up concrete contrails with composed curiosities that cobble conceptualized routes through colloquial clouds. They travel to torment timidity and to woo time's tarnished tricks with temperate twists of topics thorough. Wanderlust--that woman--wields the widened wonders of whimsical wits and wanton worth, providing words--a fuel--to waft o'er worried "whys" and "whats". This severs silence--the steadfast sun; a blinding mistletoe that is marinated by the magnetic musings where maps are morrows and masks are marred. They briefly roam by those royal ramparts where reminiscence is disrega

If love’s to muse of classic rarities, Then love’s a rose, a kiss, a timeless game, That’s played till musing procures clarities, And eyes acquire girls that have no name . . . If subtleties amuse reclusive hearts, Then musings taint the truth and all it bears, Reclusive hearts invade the eyes and smarts Of lads who wait—to miss—the girl too rare. Are subtle girls inclined to motivate Reclusive hearts that ache a drowsy crush Away from brimming, blissful eyes that wait For love’s insipid wrongs where truths are flushed?     If so, then musing’s all a beauteous lie,     And subtlety’s a

He dabbles; plays with words of lover's trite, Like building blocks erected by the books that pleased the timid, prideful eremite whose poems flatter glass with homely looks. He dabbles; writes to sway enticing eyes, Like dreams of diamonds, gold and silver's rates that lace the paper's white, a fine disguise where value glows, and worthless imitates. He dabbles; claims to grasp what love invokes, Like poetry's inviting lies and facts that wooed the girl to leave the poet broke, for love and poems stick, they don't attract.     He dabbled wrong; his poetry was fake,     He wrote of lust, not love—his first mistake.

They cause the humble to seek out those hysterical hopes that hug the horizon's hair, to pull those vivid strands with a sensually timid clutch, tugging at them with pressures that are malicious in ease, not knowing that their pulls brood storms; storms that cause minds to curdle beneath an ashen sunset.

To see in lust and not to see in mind, Is done by bugs that bare the lovely sight, They bait the dying, barren leaves that pined for love's inviting stream of lying sprite. Am I a bug? a bug with mischief's wings That flutters, blinks?—behind those eyes a beast Whose famine lusts to take what nature brings And gaze at love in platter full and feast? If lust consumes the luster of my eyes, Then I beseech that trueness blinds them well, The starving dove, do peck and pull and pry that sinful ebb which swayed the likes of hell!     A swift and mighty bill will take away     my dazzled form that moves to mock my prey.