As if wild onions souring my Similac With verses chastising my darkening woes In close quarters of a jester's commute Shadowing the jackdaws of my mind In love. making like a game of Pachisi With an imbrication of her fingers While rolling her eyes, shaking the dice As my muse masturbates And walls of my shell spilling the yoke As if wild onions souring my Similac Shedding the wimple of her sisterhood Sucking on her nipples Beyond the grotto of my den abbey With verses chastising my darkening woes
Where silence reigns and a withering corpus without a breath still as death beneath the snow as icicles hung blue dripping a cold martini with words from the dead get off my wood bed and let me sleep deep as you taste the silence dripping a cold martini from my withering corpus in the valley of greenflies
The end of the beginning, who is there to sweep up when anarchy rules, who will bury the corpses or scatter the ashes, when there is no bye and bye, just evil, letting the good times roll, when anarchy rules, and no more rodeos.
When dark heightens the rapidity of my pulse and my ghost is now skimming at your window behind the walls of thorns and roses shading the flower and darkening the green where vigils of pale-eyed virgins sleep of my shadows in the moonlight, salivating in the grotto of my melancholia pitying the saints, I weep shading the flower and darkening the green at the right hand of god with three pennies in the well