the sound of…
Who can he
lie with who will not see truth ruthlessness
sunk by claret and port
What face
will look at fastidious grates traits
fulfilling a season of sport
Wearing
blasts of penitent craving behaving
in sync with subordinate fashion
Weeping
with smiles to crucify mirth dearth
of a couplet that erases grave passion
Waking to
notice lips on a pillow willow
and waddle and wallow and whine
Wincing
with drool over butterfly blood flood
all ducts with very best brine
Shaping
gaunt patterns of splayed clotted wings winking
lashes with whips of perfume
Sifting
through some of his least favorite things thinking
crashes in unfurnished rooms
Sinking
dead moonbeams caught by a novice provinces
blinking through summerless suns
Slipping
through cracks in an abbey less door bores
receiving handbags and guns
Seeing
thresholds retreat from blonde floors cores
without apples like joy without fun
Slapping
lame broadloom that settles the score fourscore
and seven times zero plus one
Carpeting
flasks with moss bellied gnats flats
at seventeen going on twelve
Camping it
down through featherless hats brats
who govern with heightening elves
Cooking
one book with a sprig of old thyme crime
unfit for punishment’s rule
Creaming
the crop of illegitimate rhyme signing
a cheque for hardworking fools
Croaking
flowers by strangling vines trying
to let billowing shrouds
Cascading
his larynx with very bad wine winding
through lengths of thinning crowds
Shame at
the thought of a good deed undone fun
for fast fury fellating the proud
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