Through The Swollen Glands Of November

through the swollen glands of November

dead snow in a slipknot choke

bullying the semen of my sailors cock of chicken grease

serenading the symbols of the lair:

an early dawn

raiding the shambles of my tea

the caffeine worm of subjective flour on a fudge snail

hails the summer of my voice

bails the haymakers compass point

and drips through the circus of my blood:

early buds of a crimson king in a lame flood

pimps the labour of my stare

on a paper wing

where stings the locks of my shallow hair

strumming the breastbone of my strings

as wings with the turquoise of my stale string three

singing for the rubbing of my groin.

the hailstone queen

who once was the father of my boil

now swings with the phaedra of the ice-age shrimp

lashing the pores on my back!

three queens and a fish pond straight

mating with the armpits of a flush

as blushes a red wine chalk

stoning the soya of my milk:

a silk dress

a harpoon breast

father knows

but mother knows best

a honeycomb feast

will free the serpants of the scenic sex.

gluton free

a pecan pie on an eye bone hanging wet

dragging a stale cigarette on a billboard ledge

humping the shadows of my cave;

a passion play on a cruel hand

through the swollen glands of November

waxing the candles of my flesh;