Apple Tarts And Mustard

and i will follow the trail to the grazing moon

fields upon the scars of the bruised sun

crows milk swims in shades of lemon brie;

defecting fingers all aboard the steam to better skies

the performers branching elbow digs beneath the graveyards thighs;

in parceled plastic water. in tins of processed bleach

peels the pale satsuma with her skin upon her peach

with plasticine emotions for the breeding meadows Spring

how soon perfume becomes a stench when the reaper starts to sing;

the reaper. grim and powerful

the sleeper to the eyes

the patterned lace of woman's drawers?

the battered face of man's demise?

it was never just the taking part

just the marketing of prize;

sing a song of sixteen pence. bring joy the oppressed

bring light with your theatrics on your stages for the blessed.

be at peace behind your guarded walls with your songs of sleaze and sex

no doubt you are most comfortable with your obsession to the self;

I can only hope the victims understand your midnight tune

as they dance across the rooftops to the vomit on your spoon;