A PANTRY PHEASANT FOR A BROOCH

 
 
when the snail is asleep and the periwinkles winkle in the brisk twilight of a perpetual undernoon
and the temple of a spherical calamity is a long pause, jostled into real life by your actual demise like a parenthetical parasite, clutching the void between worlds for the juice of a pirate’s derelict fiction… spawning afternoons in a pond of after-scapes, aswoon to the purpose of too many worlds to conquer in. and too many apples forbidden… just sittin’ around, doing things that don’t-don’t matter like a vibration with the palsy of a wormhole as docile as Vulcan in a Lemon Tree with an Apple Mind.
a pantry pheasant for a brooch is the real life and the cotton you cotton is a bruised remove
at an angle for a snipe and a caustic Sunday, wrapped in levolor blinds that constantly
maraud the perpetual dilemma ever extending, and approach by storm, the Unending Things
that gather in the husk of our sunsets, like a boil on a dying star!
our love squeaking through the hinges of our unattended saturnalias…
squandered by leagues of wandering, adept in purpose without form
and constantly gathered at the hearth of our quiet doom
when the snail is asleep
on the moon.
 
and the moon is awake
like a Moon.