Seventeen Degrees Below;

even more when the Crow sings of the Nightingale

dust at the midnight parade

a cavalcade where salt greets blood

floods my eyes with sweat from behind a horses ear.

clear pasteurized dripping for summers stew

inside the arteries of a clotted cream

from where came the bludgeoning of spawns unwanted dam;

chapters of wave upon wave on succulent sea

 the flee from the devilish charm of uncertain heal;

that is who you are

this is all I pretend I can be;

ears with knuckles clenched in fevered shawl

with Hedgehog balls

you are the sails about my stall

I am the crucified Whale who sinks five fathoms tall.

this is what I am

that you would never choose yourself to sometimes be;

fennel wing in coat of peppers crushed

perched upon the truss

your lilac blush

that is who you are

that is all I pretend I can be;

even less when the Nightingale stings the tail of Crow

drunk on laundered sheets

with chunks of Tuna sprouting from a Turtles nose

the bearded broth jousts with marshmallow toes

this wrath of ice. seventeen degrees below;