And Tumours From The Grave

and tumours from the grave

will rise above the clotted mood of disparaging despair.

heir of horse

in golden claret of trust

thrusts the unworthy thimble

into passageways of distempered lust

where feint smells of desert dust

wrestles with the trinket of charm;

blood of love. blood of despair.

where seeps the sweat of Bison hair.

in god we suffer. in god,

we stand still;

with grieving wine

as whines this hour of nocturnal sublime

drowns the palette of reprieve

as paints the saint of reform

the incarnation of a cancerous silk;

with unbuttoned blouse

how aroused

the amphitheatre of umbilical chords?

as sings with thyme

the rosemary of all that is discreet;

minted lamb, where taunts the slime

of winters crooked limp;

pave way for the wounding of this.

this insufferable gallop through furlongs of unwanted whisper

where stands the golden crow with jug and glass;

righteous thugs with walks of quickened spit

where swallows the Swallows throat of orange pith;

gone the eyes of Ophelia

gone the disease of her limp covered kiss;

rejoice her avoidance of death.

for there is nothing

there is nothing greater

there is nothing greater than this: