once more as seen in others
this plague of eyes crowned as crucifix
on a meagre strand of isolated skin.
through retrospective clarity
housed among the calling cards
of holly dressed as tripe.
each death as any other
in a slumber mask too ripe to see beyond
fires of the brimstone
where burns the eggs of badgers
with theirs sleeping pills stacked higher
than the laughing gods in horizontal lares.
it is here with trowel and pitchfork
snaking through the five thin lines of white
drinking tea from the slippers
of the footless carnivore.
about my chores
as endless as they always are.
there is no more a sparkle in the air
the draught has long since passed it\'s colours by
and dragged the kicking tailor\'s knots
through the torso of an executed mind.
how many miles must the pulse crawl
to the artificial light of scent and scrawl
to the golden pond of suicide
where you and I
will dare to tell the sinking world
we have nothing more to lose?