how bird’s flight
And sheep’s eye
And dog’s bite
will buy the farm
supply the prize
despoil the oily, fungal dirt
No one will ever understand
why the increased sharpness of a knife
can separate smaller and smaller items
This table, carpeted and warm
its avocado green
the chocolate
winter time of the mind
the night, senseless and void
an encomium upon my death
will forever come
unknown knights rush past my grave without
a notice
their cutlery developed to a point
their appetite is as
constructed as their armour
A hooded wart, spit upon the pont
A spindly, reveled beggar
chortling in her brown rags
no hair to speak of
no sight to worry the wind
aghast, a beastly warnick warrior.
The clouds of clownish drowsing splashed
the rainy tundrous roof, And kissing
kindnesses allow the measure of the
hard-rejected river from flowing mid-air,
fragmented and thupping like a martyr
east down to the ground, broken from
the chamber, lolling for the cover of
the others, of the all-confronting lover,
of the union of the ocean, which they despise and
conquer and deny all in silence,
corrupting the aqueous clabber of the
ground with their blubber.
No one will ever understand
how candled masonry and catacombs and
mated rulers devise their eschatology in dreams,
rapine prurient mischief, a doze of calyptic,
sedentary, brave evangelism.
The Replanted Writer 