Out

Frustration fathoms stained

Rings of Chances, the unfinished canvas

In ammonia decay

Is listless.

Reciprocal rancid though – the words which roll

From the leather mouth

Like some foul emergency

Unheard of

Residual heat slimed off a wall

Into a pouch. Rushed,

Angers curtain comes to settle

Like a sick film

To choose light becomes a moral battle.

Insistence of ills.

Mind screaming

Soliloquies feeling

Shot and ruptured and ripped

And spilt.

The shell-dust conglomerate

In each ear, guilt

The hot sharp sincerity

Like fox-scent.

The redded edge of carcass speared

Bent to pretence. It’s spread of thick

Long whorish legs

Riddled whole in my mind, where tears rest like birds

Coves of bone a-jaw, mildew

Scudding ears.

Unbeaten – well

Disproportionate weekend.

What did you think you could offer? When

Gored

My skull, a grey hole

On the horns

Of the devil

Lulled and dishevelled.

I count hours down

Till they slip to the pretence.

Everything mingles

Minces freedom

From its littered window.

You can watch the heavy eyeballs

Blithered, vociferous

Lingering inside a shot skull

And believe this autonomy

Was owned without fault

Of the slipped bedding pane I attempted

To cross. Each year

Raised hands to my head

Felt the shot of

Stone-cast cold in Midas sleep.

In that the peace-pill of one

Slipped to seventeen.