I’ll not confess I engaged that rat who in a Rubenesque repose,
Around battered dreams of parrots, smiled in the hawk-nosed mask.
Her awkward spout that of an active art of doom: Spots of blood
Her risibility
And nexus. Contemplation that might be some sporting letter
To lessen corruption’s blowsy dart shaking in my fingers’
Timorous axe ‘round crowded lessons of sexual musicality.
Cupid the investor
Jungle bird molester; spoor rotting in the rank collective air.
Rabid topsy: Skull floored by my grave, inveterate advice.
I’ll be your fool, your death, your smooth, well-fingered stone
To whistle up.
