the fleas are dancing on the wings of pins
and slugs, inflamed mandala, tare kelp of intent.
such nocturnes claiming the simpering tall
grottoes of the heart. Timbre nulls
the chrome vats. song after song lights
the limbering vessel homeward. all ending well.
all well lovely there, crucial fatigue of monsters,
staggering in scrofulous lanes of dust,
dull vocation meandering in the atrium
of the river gong. we forge such rules of screams,
such finicky bolts and pilasters, cheap shots mustering
faith in the chinoiserie of the goat.
blue offal on the cracks straddles the steppe.
the beetle of a moustache continues its grin
towards a slight epoch. mulch fantastically charmed,
names crossing the arid rust and ganglion
of the mushroom field, smarting, where gutters
deploy the lewd & meagre feast.
the Spartan heart has squatted for the first time
wrestling with the rungs of clowns,
of such frugal pudenda with splendid cloth interspersed.
internecine dub garbling the network,
plus crawling and crawling, the slurred brief
plane reticulating with amber gangsters,
vessels & such, cleaned out we are, of almonds,
of souls, of the abattoir of memory.
eggs whiter & lemon stains perfectly chaste,
clasped as glistening rivets recoil on the flanks,
involves such shunting, miraculous turds, as the glade
perplexes with notions of grace.
so many angles, droll from imperfect balance,
cascade with snouts. listening, all are regal
all forfeit, all pretty, too, as fortune lies aghast.
cobalt drizzle from that limpid den
scouring the belly of juice, axles, spindles,
& the orange maculate waters.
& fleas are dancing on the wings of pins,
& choking on candour of the sac.
& bustling, sac rigorous, sac replenishing
glib sands, brightening with moist retinue.
the engine languishes, the small pollen engine
ticks & lingers. of long grasses and slag,
the half -rimmed cables' caulk, the lissom
spokes of the whirligig kissed with mildew.
pockets of shimmer as well, thickets of infant in the diesel.
listen though, rustling and swishing is it
as the vines break, tendrils fickle, tongues nacreous
in the atrium, meagre feast, mangled steppe.
little piles of teeth track the bloated tar.
the spending line is fixed in oily gravel,
tanned canal, eyes slaked by splendid foam,
chrism, bitumen, eggs, flourishes
of ageing traffic, the infected concrete polished
with the groggy fumes of what's left.