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Backsider
A lord amoral Pouring over her florid aboral Swearing a portal Will report back my staring; The garden unfloral, uncaring.
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Footwear
You hadn’t packed the right shoes For watching the age’s epochs-oded passing On some undamped part of massive yacht’s Jotun capacity.
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Gut flasher
Truth seek and funeral. See-through and dutiful As a ghost dog, solely logged by those necronomically attuned, Who, when jus-imbued, so rudely chewed the legs of your unit. I didn’t see you at the Shrew’s funeral. I suppose that, from Dewsbury, our yew-buried home appears rural. Gooseberry bitter my heart. Kept yards apart, at acral,…
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Sour news
Few as me are mooted! Wreathed and wrapped in funeral apt livery, death’s quivering green, For this useless Me’s commutation. Welcome ends, the wending Welkin blemish the moon’s weapons. Delivering to doorsteps doorstop portions of myself Until I’m empty as a DPD van’s back come six PM. Waste the diem. I breathed what repeated GP…
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The mood is on me
Nothing moves me This irremovable mood which occludes, Like a bright moon does the owl’s beloved gloom, All the world’s joy. The noise of guards rifling through Rooms made of tinfoil and dead leaves Loud as toasterpops seem In a house full of people sleeping dreamily.
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