so red the nose
of absinthe and champaigne
each day the setting sun
with thimbles coarse as mustard
for an afternoon delight
picking through the embers of flamingo gut and wine
twinned with high sierra with a pocket book and pen.
stacatto brown paints holocaust
a rocket to the moon
with a million sparrows spinning two abreast.
each thimble lies and gives up all it\'s ghosts.
part miracle not art
nor orifice of the hollow tree to climb.
who whispers so we moan of treasures
brighter than the sex?
warmer than the crudest oil
it coils it\'s feathers kissing only bread.
dead below the knees
but above the throat,
above the wagging tongue of clotted cream
beetween the eyes
between the oyster\'s web
of such a brilliant disguise
falls a truth we aim to slay
and burn upon a cross
that slays one last and final cold farewell.