neither now nor one day soon
will I show desire to the conforming moon.
the coincidence of parallel thoughts
twinned with the siren of the vineyard swan
weakens my pale dishevelled skin into something cold;
I have seen and touched the poets hand above my watered grave
milking the white rose petals as I lie in state
in sleepless shapes destined for the perilous tabloid pen.
my fading heart
as grey as the hairs on the flippant sunday storm
blows its blood upon the mourners crooked limp
whose impish mind still begs for pennies for the slots of my eyes;
the minted breath of stitches across my skulking ears
pierced with the torment of voices on charcoal stairs.
my half- mast soul
drifts with the morning mist on gallows fit only for a king
crowned with petulant thorns baked and bottled by his queen of chess;
a naked lamb for winters starving gut
battle scarred, armed only with compass and wilting rook
come sharpened hook or hells very own mystique
am I to die like a peasant in the pleasant surrounds of loves\' early dawn
or swim with the pheasants\' tale through waves of aniseed oil?
rich pickings for the flickering candles of tormented light
as I melt with the toxic wax with malignant banners of cradled christ.
neither now nor one day soon
will I dare again to wrestle with my thoughts beyond the condescending moon;