markbousfield

Costly exemptions of enmity lay as broken twigs,
pen caps and hymns across the beardy barrowing hills of Devony land,
rolling and doughing with little classes of goat,
caught hairy in a trap of love,
under a pint glass,
freedom freely raping away,
non-chalant,
dreamy,
blissful,
gleefully harmonising squeaks and squeals
with a bitter snatch of jellied eels.

Jealousy reeks upon a quick vicar en route to his copulation with God,
fornicating on the brink of existence and laying His remains in the hollow of a TREE.
He is dead now,
You,
Me,
the fruitful dilettante and the burgeoning mustard seed,
passed into the palm of a passing stranger,
a musician on the run from the Cotswolds,
leashed extremity of her lazy eye sleeps,
oh sleep,
please,
slumbery sleepy sleep.

Sloop through sleep and teach the naily rust boy the virtue
of infamy and ignominy, abnormity.
Swarthy and portly that nightmare returns
turned into grotesque masquerades of fish gleaned from the mud,
far beyond their means,
in the mud,
guilty boudoirs calligraph sinful pleasure onto the skin
of every etching on your labia,
of every lobotomy and engineerment of atrocity,

oh sealed black antique cabinet,
I have another name for you...