Pale evening,

I see your unique ivory smudges painted on the breeze

Your lonely veneer is placated, however, undefeated by flailing town traffic lights

Both silvery air and heavy silence

Seem to array themselves with your inauspicious lazy charm

Pale evening,

Your unyielding alabaster skin is creamy-white, like vanilla cake and apple blossoms

It penetrates the sky, pierces the sun

I feel your cryptic graze infiltrate my flesh and silky whispers whizzing past my ear

You’re all together a radiant dirty gray and a sweetish milky flush

You tantalize the moon with chalky dazed-eyed seduction

You beckon the sparkling dark black

Promptly followed by glinting, clinking celestial night bodies

They cannot refuse your numbing allure-

Your attractive, indestructible ashen gloom

Visual Imagistic Verses

Window Glass Murmur

Night time beckons,
(Or does it sneak?)
A bottomless languor,
Meanders beneath the covers.
You shake it off, work it off, breathe it off, live it off
Are you so tough?
And you try your best by the brightness
To transcend the walls
With all their white lightness

Night time beckons
(Or does it hover?)
Diamond images and coffe stains,
Elephant skin and window panes
Night time beckons
And a ripple imbues
You posses a lull-like varying luster
And your listless apathy
Can frenzy me into a hissing fluster
Night time beckons

(Or does it dissemble?)
The city appears to ooze a chatoyant felicity
For all that our demure contours leak fiercely
Beguiled and bemused
We seek calamity
Dulcet images and cheap champagne,
Opulent within and comely restrain

Night time beckons
(Or does it radiate?)
Pink glows and adolescent sparkles,
All the blackness and silence
Drizzle me in sprinkles
The night time softly beckons,
(Softly)

YOU WITH THE PERCEPTIBLE INTERMIXTURE NATURE

You want to be a diamond, a glossy you, a merely endless sight, an awe-shimmering smile night-sweeping sideways into idle stars. But you’re a perpetual presence, penetrating civil paintings. You’re an inauspicious frail oozing something. You’re a sort of material befitting iron, and quietly and frequently you’re wrung down down down ten tons down. You manifest politely, a blacksmith-y external polish. You’re an educated bear, baring flowers near my window-pane. Black or silver ashes, never gold. But you, you want to be exquisite. You can be exquisitely wrought in a summer-morning costume. Not a well-ordered, wooden head any longer. You’ve become sparkling black, not quite a white gloss. You’re a sharply over-exulting silvery sheen beneath my feet. You’re the drowsy pleasure one diligent, blazing morning. You dwell near smoke-blackened walls, and illuminate the gloom.

I readily, quite free-heartedly make your acquaintance, you with the perceptible intermixture nature.

Passionate glinting falsettos