from back to front it seems as yesterday
clock-face aloft in gods own seedy town.
it is as feared,
the dead shall not appear
now the pleasant people talk a giblets song.
their gizzard of malarkey\'s spit
three pokes of moon
form muscles of a tongue.
they chatter most as lovers
under covers of a mushroom heart
each pregnant under promise of a lung.
they are postcard green
these people with their hand-to-mouth pristine.
their fingers clean, possessed
with flowers pressed as serviettes
the country-boys\'
with bruises on their chins.
red carpet rolls it\'s trolling of a rip.
bad weather days where
sways our quantum steps
an anger from the footsteps of an ox.
full-moon of gorse
that dwarfs the eiderdown
shows it\'s horns
and dares to stomach pain.
the ill-retreat.