And My Take On The Fake Hill's Climb

and my take on the fake hill's climb

gentle slime that slithers with the drool king

a murdered wound

flaunting it's lashings on the bragging stone

taunting the ragged weeds at the elbow's crease

but only to the splintered eye

can be seen the healing of the blind winds travel tail;

swift trees with slow blood bark

ready with their winter claws for the brown bears itch

stitching together

the solemn oak and the sleeping magpies spoken wing

as rings the neck of our bird baths python shell

where sails the pitted schooners olive branch

no wider than the rib cage of it's mast;

everlasting gods on their grovelling leaves of grey

how I applaud their sinking skin and bone fuelled flame

as I tire with the tropics of an apricot cancer

embalmed with the fluid of the crushed snails squash

in a white wall room where skates confessions tongue;

to taste just once

one ounce the cold winds severed chill

and my take on the fake hill's climb

can be seen the healing of the blind winds travel tail;