markbousfield

And me,
all summer-honeyed skin cuffed into the winter,
oh yes,
with his dewy waltz of Friesian glassy,
sassy to the sailors,
all double chinned in lullabies of times with hooves,
of all the fucking crowds,
oh times have passed,
there's a cat filling his fill with chewy mice,
meowing by a milk churn.

All the breast I could fleetingly call my own
flashed in the blue rushes of light at sunrise,
it falls further than fathers and mothers lost at sea,
lost in the Arcanum of a rhyme.
Be like me Laura,
deathly and pale,
a frigid shimmer in the eye of a wine so bitter and old.

The choral line,
one long sweet note sung by Welshmen,
lingering.
it's reverberations milking the effortless bygones
of my complicity.
I swayed,
comatose and full of combed kisses,
indulged in a sartorial kind of crazy,
mangoes and wild fruits to embellish
the swishy love book,
oh pray and I will bray with the swans.
oh not forgetting the horses,
in participle and principle,
like a suckling baby,
a song of want in a chair,
in a church,
in a chance,
in a choir.

Odelay,
hip hop hooray,
she's not in love with me,
oh the chasm of unlove beckons,
my forthright cartographer-esque-isms,
drunk dismembers of conscious film flam.
The brusquest and basque
a corset I dreamed of taking to task in the perfect dark.
a priestly petal in the finest of fettle,
as downy as a duck drowning too fast.