137

Amongst the hollow shades dressed in ash, blue,

the moon hangs down like a thirsty molar,

waiting to pounce on the gelatin glue

that coheres in dead cow bones’ ice collar:

No one’s there to hear it but the plague, blue

as the darkest day floats above the shade,

ashen as the parched pelt explodes – no clue

as to the whereabouts of the crisp fade:

I, choking on citronella flames -blue

at the horntips, blank and hollow when played –

only remember the flowers that flew

when we tumbled in our own cindershade:

The wind-eye floods with the dust of devils,

and I can only sigh, as sight revels.  

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