my oils are toxic to me

feet crack in the morning stones
all pea gravel and trenches. a fine mist
covers burgeoning sweet pea  fingers
 tiny rivulets of green string  reach
for wood to climb into sunlight.

august looks at all this bust out
brings the rake, bows a cello
 unearths the whinehouse.
trouble in your dimples
 whistles sweet history
and we go down again.

we're all about clean collars
no matter who we're fucking
image is everything, appluad
yourself into a twee version
i'll put on my poodle skirt
we can dance the aubade
 til noon in non toxic shirts

or i could cup your knee in hand
loose arthritic  hip in a piano
 version of a pop song
 i grew up with when you lived
in an other place living a different
soundtrack of our lives and when
we almost reach nirvana
the commercial's a timed dante- circle
a kalpa crunch, kalki'd heads bobbing
along to a dank reggea beat.