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spillage fayre  ( eryaf egallips )

…

 

in the village of the spillage

& the little gland of weasels

 

where the air is a snare

& there’s death in their stare

 

in the kingdom of the karens

with their whispering projections

 

in the bites of their tongue

with a bouquet of dung

 

sings a pickled cabbage poet

in the scrawling of the morning

 

in the shapes of the daze

with a piffle pigeon pen

 

for a bend indeed

is a cowpat on the back

 

but the leas beam green

as the turds scrawl down

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

( author nodes )

 

so eat my weird & go fuck yourselves

…