Last night in the west-wing she drank
my wine, she amplified vitamins
stinging the staff with stitches
and emerald broidery.

A queen in a beehive, diminished
by masters of quarterly light;
increased on behaviorist’s
stringent beliefs; bereft
by the blitz and by
glittering prize.

The honey is golden, an era
of silver decay. Still silence
shoots odd-balls, leads
highness from dislike
to may.

And as well as astuteness the
tone of her voice stands

And along with the wayward the
way of her world wails
high hone.

Last night in the sub vault she crossed
my line, she awakened her lions
sealing the gate with legged
and ill-fated forgery.

A monarch in good gear, forth given
by teachers of ticklish lime wire;
inspired by analysis’ movable
methods; bestowed
upon blare, upon
blacksmith attire.

And as slick she is streamlined the
fire of her loins forces

And alone at the signpost the
sign of the times forms her

Hotel wary of whims, hotel cagey
and hostile; let in lodges and
inns, let out lonesome
old dodges. Do not
duck, do not stoop,
pitch your sitting.

Gravesite gravy and grim, gravesite
gritty and penile; send in caskets
and cases, send the friendless
aged faces. Do not
dog, do not plague,
curse the knitting.

Glow on factory, glory and bless
you; avant-garde blaze
forward, fortress new.

Bennie and booze…

Pollination of crosses, promise,
cue us Mary; cure us merry
maiden and fair thou shall

Serine, tonicity…


M.J.C.A. 16-06-2006