how fickle the pickled rose in its\' orchard grave
slave to the abandoned eyes through blanket trees
pleasing to the blinkered heart of a superficial heirloom hanging still
six miles shy of a camels\' back
once thirsty for the tortutured thorns disfigured gut
that once ripped through the veins of my wrist;
sunshine on the flowered bed where once crept a black lungs bride
guided to the churchyard landfills ever increasing populas of high intense demands
bemused only by the untimely death of my impotent hands
as the glands of the scurrying April rain massage the temples of my brood
with its\' nondeclarative passages from the drunken throat of a Sunday morning tramp;
samphire smoke from the vampires\' crystal ball
bites through the secret desires of my lust for the rusting clerics\' smalls
to satisfy my curiousity - and satisfy once more-
my love for a dead disciples spleen
to pick through the bones of its\' deranged and troubled dirt
and when he runs with gay abandon through the sinews of my neck
I will lay beside my one true love
and tell her where it hurts;