Between The Darkness Of Your Knees

the world was never round.

it was a pound for the taking

the waking eyes of towns, villages and tents

it was the sixpence of repent

the wrought iron gate of the raping of the wood

the bleeding wound that bleeds and cries

as an ending sentence should;

it was the beating of brawn upon the dull

the fleeting glimpse of cremated gull

where spinned the dogging vows of hearts and leaves.

harvest the heart of the belching bitch

this titch below the tallest scream

where the seamstress paints her cliterous colour green.

unforeseen. the cleansing balm of malt upon whiskey's beard

the goats log raised and reared

with branch of sycamore

where hangs the sharpened tongue of splinters rare.

tape the tongue of the melon, warm and ripe

to the cushioned fabrics burning of the light.

horseplay with the crinkle cut chip

mild mannered with spanners between the chilli con carne

the cats whiskers and the horses shit

as all aboard the whip;

hollow, this throat of the worm

that swallows the sperm of swallows tail.

as frail as I am, I once promised to be

 the pornographic flower

 the wind upon the breeze

I am the butlers bullet shooting craps

between the darkness of your knees;