Poets we be

The day grows cold
in a groaned fade
into the grey of her winter
gasconade cannonade,

my billhook splits
cerise dayscreams
from a nightmares
lineage radix,

step into my vortex
spilling arch light phantasms
that contort and contract
your cerebral orgasms,

I lace this hazy
uni-lateral lysergic grace
with blitzkrieg hurricanes
cumming in your
inner frame,

watch it ooze
along and stain
as my subliminal
travesties,

clog the cog
dripping coup de tat
droplets of licorice
leporsy,

bow in the emitted
gleam glistening
from the sting
slicing your scripture
sphincter with
stingy structured
fissures,

they say pussy
is paper, poetry,
power, and pistols,

wondering if Pac
licked the shots
from the glock
as it kissed him,

we walk within
sibylline symphonies
splicing spitfire
synergistic soliloquies
systematically dismantling
your cybernetic
syphilis sobriquets,

as two toned strings
sashay to a double
dipped espérer
within a sole
brain fart that
darts into the
whimpering spark,

falling from
the scrotum
of lexicon
icons,

whose archaic
quills find new
thrills in
rigor-mortis
paradigms,

shape-shifting
strained beams
seeming to team
as choke artists,

lost in the soup
of Yahweh's
primordial greedy
creed.

 

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WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
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