so still the world.
all eggs are dry down the back streets of a womb.
strawberry moon now circles
to the poison of a yesterday\'s today.
black pudding has it scruples
with it\'s million dots no saviour apprehends.
twelve eyes that twinkle sunlight through the pistons of a crotch.
it is the engine oil that breeds as lovers do
that feeds the boredom
the berries in a basket, decomposed!
there are stars somewhere
between the mayhem and the prayer of fallen rocks.
they have turned
the vericose veins riding gun-shot
to the corner of a foot.
and all the wool spins seven shades of grey.
it is beautiful and red
this iron of a corpse that sings sublime.
we are two alone
both buried deep in anger.
neither skin \'nor bone
neither lime-green of fantasy or lust.
my seven trees that blister as I scream.
you are the mother to my leaves
that bleeds a taste of apricot
that breaks my jaw
my bone-dry mouth in awe of something else.
so still this world.
it is silver and exact.
what I do not know
will bring mortality;