chaos. drunk.

With the voice of an echo the rooks die
tongues settling with the lattitude of
dancing piano teeth and optic nerves
I advise that you do not follow them
in a Morman's blind quest for a gold mine
as the flock and the drummer piss themselves
enticed by a blue neon light and sweat
Years = the bottom of a brown paper bag
at which resides dying coral and dreams
a flies eye and mint a universe dead


but


however


alas the headless roach dies of starvation


but


however


threadbare mechanics of string and wood live
with a purpose to behead daffodils
reinstating the time I had with her
Lady Bloom the pilot of time outside
the window once lost in the mine on stage
Essayists exchange pen with sword and web
as the cocoon cracks and reveals the egg