in the devils hearse in my mothers dress

in the devils hearse in my mothers dress

sundays stars sleeping with the bacteria of a cherry blossom face

with kisses scars on my morphine lips

buggered by the ailing drunk

on streets of alluring panic and charm;

the kingfishers arms

buckles its belt around my neck

when summer whistled its whiskers on winters speckled hen

as the brewing wren

armed with his banjo and his gob iron beak

chanced his arm on the chanceless mourner in her

most attractive mood;

food for the frenzied miracles of altered neglect

I have swallowed the tongue of suggestive paraphrase

with words of absconding willow written on the crest of her periodic pain.

stomach the truth

vomit on the tooth of sands towering castles of pretend regret;

if not dying am I dead?

in a bed of swollen watercress where mimics the pupperteers supportive string

the band of endless swing

trims the hedge of the junkyard tamborine of modern jazz;

a rash on the pallbearers chest of sinking flesh on deaths deserted spoon

showers the moon

with polluted piss of alien regret;

if not dead am I dying?

in fields of polluted counts with countess breasts of turmeric snow;

coat my walls with sundays intolerable psalm

of embalmed eyes with fluids of woeful prayer.

taste the lambs tongue pate

savour the taste of its wanted death.

toast my skull with port and lemon meringue

I am not lost

I am not in love;

I am dead;