upon telephones and repeating blanket wallpaper patterns of an iris blooming
it's as if this miniature of experience should have been written upon the backs of cows in the muddy fields.
and as men we talk amidst ourselves laying steps the steps; we lay each step that we walk upon, upon glockenspiel rocks like we know how we should cope...and play in orchestra of how we could cope with mechanic and soldered arms, with the machinery and the tools and their use.
(for The Love Song of T. Stearns Eliot competition)
smell the lamb before it breaks, before it is sold by the butcher, before he pins up his notaries of meat available. his slimy hands back-slapping slap of chop sliding and the baying tongue will lick his grime back into the fleece; its ashtray of ( forgotten things)
- the bottom of a lane mist. - beneath the cushions of a velvet armchair. - the impetuous run...
sat as I black-out inside this tram lisping a flight of feathers in harbour calling calling out from the under-garment of dawn’s adiabatic-process acclimatizing once again to the molasses umbrella
to have genie’d this wreck rip apart its chests and force its heart underwater if it splits then it is the red sea then slap this correspondence between its walls of the anchor and well the beatings and whims of stellar craze until they come round the connect of o oblivion connect ...
wrested from a flight I whispered back, each stem’s name that had fermented in her perfume. a collapse of my head upon her nape of morning mist, where blood had flowered anabatic musks; guiding me under a nettled raiment.
…and I shoplifted, scruffed this moment and placed it into the crosshairs my on/off switch
as her flushed spine, unzipped with heavens weight crumbling. caryatid; from whom each cracked pore poured red dusted sand...