I Have The Devils Blues In My Suitcase

i have the devils blues in my suitcase

with an exorbitant price for his muffled soulful whine.

his lambs liver a tonic for my sunshine gin

bloating the stomach of a parched, yet starched

marmalade blanket for the covering of my benign infatuation;

with his syrup on my lips

kissing the very fabric that purrs like a cheshire cat with an artificial limb.

planting my cashew nuts on a bareback dodgem ride

where tries my patience on a billboards blatant lie.

an exorcised theory on what was never truely relative;

a sedative for the bed-springs of my autumnal breeding fest

where the horse hairs of my chest

glistens, and listens to the moans of a triumphant potted plants release;

tease and strip the succulant itch on the back of what this is.

this is the covid pill for the stillness of my arms

an all hands on deck where a once speculative stare

dared my mind to dare to share my load

with a bramley apples smoking gun

and a Gallagher string for the lynching of my aging bullfrog blues;