i have the devils blues in my suitcase
with an exorbitant price for his muffled soulful whine.
his lambs liver a tonic for my sunshine gin
bloating the stomach of a parched, yet starched
marmalade blanket for the covering of my benign infatuation;
with his syrup on my lips
kissing the very fabric that purrs like a cheshire cat with an artificial limb.
planting my cashew nuts on a bareback dodgem ride
where tries my patience on a billboards blatant lie.
an exorcised theory on what was never truely relative;
a sedative for the bed-springs of my autumnal breeding fest
where the horse hairs of my chest
glistens, and listens to the moans of a triumphant potted plants release;
tease and strip the succulant itch on the back of what this is.
this is the covid pill for the stillness of my arms
an all hands on deck where a once speculative stare
dared my mind to dare to share my load
with a bramley apples smoking gun
and a Gallagher string for the lynching of my aging bullfrog blues;