Spring Wool

caress my spring wool of modest charm.

about this place

with slithering mould, dithering depths.

deeper and deeper with steeper regrets

hangs the idolised carcass

who suggests what we'd never confess;

 

a painted throat!

- contemporary art?-

red ink for a bluebell

a hammer and a quill

until all else remembered; it is all but to until;

show us your curves

your soft evening frills;

bleed with the dew on your new windowsill;

 

bleak with bleary eyes

on dead end string.

circles the footprints of nutritional crust

with eyebrows to paint. eyeballs to dust.

these floured beads of sweating bread

rising above all them and us;

 

wear this winter coat a day.

this feinted wool

with arthritic hands and denatured fangs

how quick we forget

that in days past she sang;

 

with my pitted olives. pitiful!.

this great beyond now not so great.

in stark contrast, the heaving bull

who weaves his silk with belly full.

was it he who once had spoke of her?

when she was once so beautiful;