poetry scroll 1

← Back toThe Dust Bin

Honey Chopped


I have a love
for pure,
sentimentally demure
reconnaissance.

The remit to see
after it,

to hear
in sounding
of waves

a collusion,
a solicitous infusion

gullible pans
the body
of my faith.

As when eerie
and leery,
squirm insoluble

chide monstrous
prey to madness.

Faithless fodder
upturns,
in holy spells
of wack a mole hell.

And I can't stop it,
horror chases me down,
lose it lose it

Throw the damn board
oh happy dagger,
misericord.

Then in a count
seven to ten
resumes again

as an irrepressible grace
carrying
tarrying, betide

trailing edges
for kisses
and misses,

sanguine or shred.
Goes straight
to my head.



Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.