SORE SPOT THE HOOPLE

pecorino is the cheese of ravens.
or raisins.

i forget which,

nimble in my imp skin
i get to lily pads that dazzle
before life’s ogre -
and crush a staring contest
with a portable hole.
like a Polaroid
between a wink
and a witness.

my eyes… doll engines.
with comet
pollen.

and sore spot the hoople
in all it’s glorious shamblesance.
the torc of its menagerie of fails
funking the doldrums of a perfectly
awkward continuum-
of unapproachable
peace.

a noisome pillory
next to a coil of suns
breaking teacups
with their
minds.