the moon is fat.
bald as scarecrow pissing on an itch!
no fields I see as memoirs of the dead;
alive at least until
the cherry suckled blood from arm and leg,
limping drunk. hacking like a mule;
transparency.
no better way for candles suicide
than to run amok
through fog and cream
to a mushroom bride with anchovies in her hair;
through the pages of a million scribbled lines
we timeless pioneers
crawling through the whites of shaded eyes
sucking on a tombstone
wired tight to guillotine
barking mad; hanging like a queen;
too short the days as heroes
no ode to magnet; dull or otherwise;
no disguise
perfection bores me far beyond surprise.
untouched by hands of humour from a frozen skull of man
where hides the light of lantern in a can;
no way back.
thirteen tramps have tracked me down
somewhere between a bastard and a son;