markbousfield

Lady Muck and all of her Friends

On the face of it
the skull beneath the skin
squeals with impassioned smiles,
tears glistened green under the lights,
eyescohort: our man

dwindled in unconscious want of milk from a tit,
to hang freely from it,
bare and
open,
hessian coated arms

cremated in the gutter of weeds
astride the front gate of dark,
mumbling lies in jest,
nightly disregard for the pains of a sleeping child
in the company of strangers,

those whose wheat hair grow
coloured in the ragged glory of shy power,
the senate declared her to roll catlike onto my lap,
saddened inside
a slow catacomb of openings and complexity
that only an open and simple facade can betray.

City winters and winsome adventures conform
with the desolation blues to inspire others from apathy,
once the mountains are clear,
once the Nazi has been purged and let Buddha love him,

he too can come in and keep his extremities warm
at our hearth with fingerless leather gloves,
shiny and pearlescent with hot blood
fresh from the deer we killed at dawn,

sweet tasting applefur smoked with oakwood,
disappearing down the Yukon trail
I shrug and roll another smoke in the tips.