Transparency

the moon is fat.

bald as scarecrow pissing on an itch!

no fields I see as memoirs of the dead;

alive at least until

the cherry suckled blood from arm and leg,

limping drunk. hacking like a mule;

transparency.

no better way for candles suicide

than to run amok

through fog and cream

to a mushroom bride with anchovies in her hair;

through the pages of a million scribbled lines

we timeless pioneers

crawling through the whites of shaded eyes

sucking on a tombstone 

wired tight to guillotine

barking mad; hanging like a queen;

too short the days as heroes 

no ode to magnet; dull or otherwise;

no disguise

perfection bores me far beyond surprise.

untouched by hands of humour from a frozen skull of man

where hides the light of lantern in a can;

no way back.

thirteen tramps have tracked me down

somewhere between a bastard and a son;