in the sheep skin, in the milk and in the theft.

my ankle was a thing in their eye, that turned                                
so I made the bed, wrote the note,                            
scripted the edges thirst                                  
                                  
onto sheets  of  flower-parlour'd mayonnaise,  up unto it's collar, the lips of it.                        
                         
   like I knew that my family had landscaped a magnificent garden                        
and unabashedly presented in vases their  soiled underwear;                    
from their polarity buds of effervescent  champagn-ic flue                                  
to the flourish of rose black-spot        
... to their piles of 'green' paperbacks.                                  
                                   
wondering always  if those nothings, could’ve, would’ve, should’ve ’been sparrow-startled into pardons.            
what blood-let  should have been spilled.                    
If only they could  have  weighed on the balance                            
the worth of butter against the margarine. with the devil in judge,    in harness                  
                 
despite his advances                                          
his assaults no more formulaic                                           
as hollow'd out blue-hawk,  
as hollow'd out blue-hawk feasting on callow blue carrion.                                  
                                   
….that this song does not repeat
sun to tap the needle forward.