Tuesday, June 24, 2014

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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