For The Horse That Walked The Surface Of The Moon

for the horse that walked the surface of the moon

talked bright as gin on the tongue of endless swill;

hand made from glass when London shed her skin

two fences shy from the black side of the core

as came and left the white whales shoulder blade.

 

three rocks the shade, ten-pin the creeping maize

Venice cries as moon-shine coils it's strings of satellite;

maria-wide, as empty as the brain

no waters yet from the blunt side of her voice.

her kaleidoscope of colours circle earths projected charm

in bolted barn whose colours melt our chambers from afar;

 

to the drum that beats the oil

beats engines chest a metal for the cart.

parting waves for the melting hands of cloth,

too wet. the space between the ears;

 

what time o'clock will now walk man? creator of the void!

on streets where marches malted wine to the throat of man and boy

jumping joy a higher shade of caviar and mice

fever spreads it's fires wide, now taller than the sun

taller than the green mans thumb that wrinkles on a scar;

 

to the pulse that drives the blood

drives deep the digging sirloin to the mouth

flying south into the eyes of Sheol's crust

to the horse that walked the surface of the moon;