hang the cliché


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

( ? )