IT TAKES TWO TO GET FINGERED AT A BUS STOP
Convulsing by sand banks, as castles die,
seduced by crimson tendrils and rag-tag
charm; the chase that kills the hunter; blundered
distance that caresses tear stained, dry cheeks.
Vanishing like a cloud, while choking cubes
of white sugar, indebted to a bag of
unformed chords. Drown in machismo colours
as phrases empty the pockets of Us;
Cascading rolls of the drummer over
lonely sheets and creeping pillars. Fillet
the fungal core and emerald eyes of ages:
greet Mark 2., lithe and tits of an angel.
Open flood gates of Melancholy to
abandon sacks of flour and untuned
sandcastles, semi colons and island;
bargain at the band stand for open hives.
