even more when the Crow sings of the Nightingale
dust at the midnight parade
a cavalcade where salt greets blood
floods my eyes with sweat from behind a horses ear.
clear pasteurized dripping for summers stew
inside the arteries of a clotted cream
from where came the bludgeoning of spawns unwanted dam;
chapters of wave upon wave on succulent sea
the flee from the devilish charm of uncertain heal;
that is who you are
this is all I pretend I can be;
ears with knuckles clenched in fevered shawl
with Hedgehog balls
you are the sails about my stall
I am the crucified Whale who sinks five fathoms tall.
this is what I am
that you would never choose yourself to sometimes be;
fennel wing in coat of peppers crushed
perched upon the truss
your lilac blush
that is who you are
that is all I pretend I can be;
even less when the Nightingale stings the tail of Crow
drunk on laundered sheets
with chunks of Tuna sprouting from a Turtles nose
the bearded broth jousts with marshmallow toes
this wrath of ice. seventeen degrees below;