At dusk, she works her way into the heart
Of a wind-tilted tree
Bracing her feelers as flesh falls away to bone
Securing to sylvan self
Gathering me into a mesh so fine
While we sip wine from the chipped teacups
Of the Mad Hatter’s broken bar.
There’s more left for you in life than this.
Secured by a rolling hitch, /
And with your sheets held fast, /
You set sail on your hospital bed…
“Poetry to shake senses awake with the splash of language.”
I slip, slight, to slither and search / Backstreet, corner, dockland, church. / Sleek, slender, slacking my thirst, /
For richer, for poorer, beggar-man, hearse.
Dusk is the time of Santa Claus /
Autumn briars where he dwells /
He stalks among the dying branches /
Among the stones, inscriptions For drowned ships and fallen leaders, Stands of alder and of birch The frozen souls of … More
There’s not much timorous about you my friend
Scrotal ye are, and swelling