there is a creeping waster all-
an orange goblin benefactor-
a monstrous cabbage eater
we are THE POLISH
and the dancers on fire, flamed in ghosts and
parasols,
do you know the interactive
value of the iris,
i never knew how little to trust
and if the bread is black it
either feeds or eats the heart
it stands still-
the heart to hold pins & needles
a bouquet of hypodermics,
blood the slippery finger of the soul
holds the fish hook
like gruel, cruel barb of
mythical square, bowl and
portal to the gut
of history
so packed with crap the rose
police,
with their only gold watch will
hope to beat the sister of your sister
and order YOU more water for your whiskey on weekdays
and bright blue hydrophilic beach breezy drinks
on the dullest of sports car weekends- give
a scrape of melancholy, moulder at the base
of clocks, and release [off] minutes like
swimmer meant for the graves of the sea.
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