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Lowland Haggis Of Unbred Souls
Touch by the faith of the mythical Swami playing pattycake in a Hindu grotto. Weep not for me wee haggis-wed, failed death on haggis bed of a granite gramophone. Feeling my joints locking, playing rigor to my mortis. Singing," R-I-G-O-RM-O-R-T-I-S, that's me!" Gathered around the haggis near the roux of turnips in death's satire. Hitting the plateau running like a duck-billed platypus in adulterated loco-motion. How deep is the haggis in Yokohami in this unkempt dark mold? Giving up to the lowland haggis of unbred souls. Blessed is the shadow in the nave of silence and the pedigreed unchained haggis. Listening to Wee Willie Winkie on the pipes. Choked by the girdle of Psalms and the dark witch. With a splash or two of tipsie. Pulling at my haggis strings with sleep's plucked heart and liver. With a dash of redeye from my quiver.
Published 5th Feb 2023
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