The ash larder you holed up
In tarnished, before
The chain-oil industry swell.
The ransom’s house
Spins spider holes, races air
In a gossamer globe.
Property if cuneiform skirls
The airfield of a pipeline,
Just a terror of steam visible in the cold air.
The guard and the gardener, visaged
By a battering ram, gaff up the
Body mantled in panache. Lorikeets
Lick it. The mass grave recoils,
Meditation feebly waits for
Desolated lambs are
Bred in an underpass to the
Meat plant, country
For non-fiction. What you
Do know, what you
Can’t know, heady in dutch,
Evangelizes the seamless
Extradition’s kidnap coast, don’t look now,
Where dusty mallets will swing, next.
Landing arils ruck open moral
Dream. Besieged the literacy’s quota
Fattens to undergird casualties.
Actors sound awful at acting.
I am risk-averse. I am
Pleasure. I have not thought.
I’m fucked. On a wave
Even the palliator is smitten,
Bell-churn of self-rung
Script. The gall flavour spalls
Taste on the fritz, hence,
Thrownness tallows a toy ball you will not
Retrieve, affixed, in the freeze-frame,
To the dead; quotational; its soldier
Tromps thru its meal car, sullying the
Plating off its hinge; I can’t stand it.
Your grave tenderness flits a
Red match. Its genius,
Loving no flue, goes up for
You. If only belletrists
Lit, why can the buttercup’s
Murderer see out here,
Splendid, ambivalent, as due
South, from neglect, you find:
Haste, alloyed; front splits standing florid
In unitard surmise; lament haft
That the dead father cranks to whip
The Beatitudes in ‘works fetid,’
See: erosions. My love, you navigate,
Lowered by life, Belief: Straw-flagged, any shake fêted will thick.