morning noon and night

morning, noon, and night.

as statues drab and dreary.

as old as beards

slurping wine from the wrong end of the straw;

in silence standing idle

a thousand skulls breathe havoc to the prayer

that flaunts and taunts our mouths of apricot;

but what of now?

winter looms as blooms the Robins breast,

ploughing hard the surface of regret;

no dust robust enough to echo thought

that sings divine

of water from the colour's of the shrew;

no Dante's brain have I to navigate.

nor braver that the language of inept.

I came and wept the seasons of a heart

that parted seas and slept as lovers do;

pure gold is this.

nature has her mother

a lover lost as cold as many more.

queen bee a Warhol picture on my wrist;

still primitive

no list have I

to pick and choose the colours of a tie,

that ropes my neck and spits a cobra smile;

five miles high,

as quiet as a dead man in his bed.

cross my palm with the silver of your blood,

profound is all I live for.

and you,

as blind as a turnip in a stew,

dismantle me

remember me.

and I'll remember you;