No Ordinary Thing

it will not cook.

moist-heat with empty head.

it just sits and waits

(time it's own in burgundy).

it has no view 

the comming years now gone.

once pencil-sharp

in a sea of kelp untouched,

where marriage was an ordinary thing

came sting of tail to terrify

from half-way house

to where the lungs are green.

to sing their own appraise

with perfect hooves, a perfect spine

each moulded from the vine

of toothless crotch

neatly packed in a box of yellow eyes.

they bear no fruit,

these eyes of candid cutlery.

they will not sing

through mouth of christ's own verse.

they just sit and wait

(time it's own in burgandy)

where waits the wounds

of mother's breasts as naked 

as her milk upon my chin.

I am yours of love personified.

and you my love,

no ordinary thing.