~

hang the cliché  (  éhcilc  eht gnah  )

…

snow, my sweet crab apple

of my hind's eyepatch


lo, the sunset is mould

but the bread smells of noses


& the hills are a hive

as my harp is aflame


& the turds sing a dove

off the lame hymn sheet


so the twat has nine lives

& the garden is dozy


like a squawk in the park

or a scab in the dark


in the blink of a pie

with a sink & a cod


i am frost in your thighs

like a rabbit

in your head lice


( ? )


...