Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Sunday Mourning

I am not the dulciloquy drazel tree
You are boulted
The dulocracy of covers
comforts me not
There are tares dumbfounded
as tautest sinews
lest we break
we body
we muscle
we feeble-mere masquerading grip-teeth
we a sheer smile
we daily multi does-its
duly pull foreover
frattéd, neverthless from bookshelf
depositary or maybe some past
feudal brain intellectephony
a fluidism
upon slim
upon ankles
gracious wrists
compliant fingers
a thin sweephair cheek flourish
Armchair feigns its fiduciary recompense
Temporarily only to the Altar would I, hobbled, hackey
after the priest’s personalityless house-keeping
his never-a-fumbled unfolding
level as Spirit placing
only the chalice’s silk pea-emerald sheen
swimmingly unseen post expectancy
Host repositarrying
gold embroidered
Anesthesia need
“What - , what do you think we shall grow old and decrepit together?”
you asked
No, not if after the night’s intimacy
you reserve the broad daylight
bachelorhood headline
beaming barranter’s
your go
your hag-leave
your yawn journey
without kiss not even a single grey hair from
Jointress I am not
Shot branch brackens its private
good girl flaggered propengenity
into budless dead
scales. Bark dogs.
Rebeggared now as if widow
Pillows’ indorsation quasi-carrion
mocks an enforced celibacy
now a carbulled pretence
Bother me not
Drive to your domestrivial detritus won-zone
and label us all:
our little spines

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