Damn every word I fail to know,

they huddle doe- eyed

before the tiger claw.


Swamps of grey cells

in mausoleum calico

pull me down

to where the dead poets live.


Theirs is a death of indelible circumstance,

mine a facade of mirage blue,

a donkey's head brays upon my shoulders

I am the moment of laughter all seek

yet it is cruelly wreathed in self- mockery

and my words are middens of dead flies

crashing against the inane alliance

of fatuity and flapdoodle.


A moon fleshed in hessian seems less coarse

but its height overwhelms me,

my fingers meander between vacuums

clutching at what was never there.


Oh that a wish could be the intensity

of a star's solemn oath

in that moment it knows all is ending.




A book

in spurious livery,

its sentience an ugly thing

of welts and melted ice-cream.


It hovers

as the flies


beguiled by the red quilted heather.




Bottom shelf,

leeched by dust blossoms

that swallow the words

and yellow each page.


How callused

the fingers that reach out,

cloaked in flesh

autumnal in their poverty.




Every time a bell rings

an angel loses their virginity.


( Imagine the onomatopoeia my friend )


It sells,

not one

but a billizillion.


Rich beyond the dreams of Colchis.


And you think I care?


Do I fuck......


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