and tumours from the grave
will rise above the clotted mood of disparaging despair.
heir of horse
in golden claret of trust
thrusts the unworthy thimble
into passageways of distempered lust
where feint smells of desert dust
wrestles with the trinket of charm;
blood of love. blood of despair.
where seeps the sweat of Bison hair.
in god we suffer. in god,
we stand still;
with grieving wine
as whines this hour of nocturnal sublime
drowns the palette of reprieve
as paints the saint of reform
the incarnation of a cancerous silk;
with unbuttoned blouse
how aroused
the amphitheatre of umbilical chords?
as sings with thyme
the rosemary of all that is discreet;
minted lamb, where taunts the slime
of winters crooked limp;
pave way for the wounding of this.
this insufferable gallop through furlongs of unwanted whisper
where stands the golden crow with jug and glass;
righteous thugs with walks of quickened spit
where swallows the Swallows throat of orange pith;
gone the eyes of Ophelia
gone the disease of her limp covered kiss;
rejoice her avoidance of death.
for there is nothing
there is nothing greater
there is nothing greater than this: