morning, noon, and night.
as statues drab and dreary.
as old as beards
slurping wine from the wrong end of the straw;
in silence standing idle
a thousand skulls breathe havoc to the prayer
that flaunts and taunts our mouths of apricot;
but what of now?
winter looms as blooms the Robins breast,
ploughing hard the surface of regret;
no dust robust enough to echo thought
that sings divine
of water from the colour\'s of the shrew;
no Dante\'s brain have I to navigate.
nor braver that the language of inept.
I came and wept the seasons of a heart
that parted seas and slept as lovers do;
pure gold is this.
nature has her mother
a lover lost as cold as many more.
queen bee a Warhol picture on my wrist;
still primitive
no list have I
to pick and choose the colours of a tie,
that ropes my neck and spits a cobra smile;
five miles high,
as quiet as a dead man in his bed.
cross my palm with the silver of your blood,
profound is all I live for.
and you,
as blind as a turnip in a stew,
dismantle me
remember me.
and I\'ll remember you;