Over spilt milk I cried,
Underneath thirty-nine ladders hiding;
I seasoned a crow’s bladder,
Brushed it with sage and tidings.
I held a bird in a burning bush,
I watched a pot unboil itself,
I was the man for whom time waited;
Your absence made my heart grow harder,
Bones of chalk, and isolated.

My trawler moored to a bollard,
I foresaw a storm from the gunwale;
Back to the cabin I was pushed by a gale,
Inside a sailor was fricasseeing a pig
On a hob, with brothy stock I’m reasoning.
The sea in the harbour spat me out in a fit,
Regurgitated tablets, and rose into sleep.
The king banned all of the windows
For defenestration not to exist.

I cleaned for an agent of devilment,
Vases fused to flowers odourless and dry;
Tomorrow en masse toss the pancakes,
Rain falls from the angels’ eyes
As they floss the gates with albumen.
Moss now clouds the garden and barks like mown grass;
A plume of peacock feathers I found there,
An opulent train, the bridesmaid was doomed;
Seven fissured mirrors cracked with the moon,
Poetry is my aposematism.




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