this god of a thousand mouths
lilly white in the footsteps of a jew.
of course no serenade
the music empty. coast is ever clear.
there is no son to walk with
to talk of imperfections in the bladder of a shrew.
there\'s no carbon nor a copy-cat
now the sneeze of a happy sleeping pill
asks nothing more of bygone days and you.
I do, of course I do.
\'till death depart from the quay we lovers hang.
it was the third glass eye that winked us back to life;
like a blue-veined cheese
we blossomed in the foreskin of an amputated dust.
my rust a meagre nightshade for the candle on your breast.
by his own hand
he of a great unknown with a penguin heart
beyond a more less pleasant view
yellow soap. white frost in the corner of my mouth.
onward as soldiers
christian in thought to a crucifix
smell the leaves in the devils sixty-four.
it bores me still
above the white male stallion
you scallywag with a purple nose
and a rose with the sticks of four more hungry men
each as frail as a snail in a shadows box.
I have chcikenpox and a swelling on my brain.
my mother was a bag of wood
as tall as I am thin.
this picture of a place
a tractor-pull
beyond the hazel eyes of a passing foot.
the five acts of Othello
which one are we my fine-dined feathered friend?
touch me
watch me bleed where the lovers leap and swell.
tomorrow ours
you and I
with this god of a thousand mouths;