tiny corpses





are about to air, about to leave

flawed regal palaces of wither,

bones and sighs in flame, auburn

and deep spreading bronzes




cots aren’t quite the summer stooping

wheat they should be, even spiders

unfurl their cotton intriguing homes,

and frost is nourishing it’s blow soon




rust trumpets upon sudden breezes

gaped with melancholic music, bees

are staggered stillness in memories

of strewn stiff pollens




the hinge of flowers is bust and

dismantles unseemly gone off gowns,

conclusion is all about like a prelude

of rot, the stood are bowed




the mosaics of beautiful, the patterns are

being broken, there’s sleep about everywhere

beckoning, if you wander now you’ll soon

be gone




canopies, their sutures and stitches fall

as if blood had been written and told

to diminish, how many strides deep

are you?




so this entire minute is finished, well the

clocks did warn of troubled skies ahead

and those that are awake will be buried

in shanties of dysfunctional hearses




piles of nooses where poems are riddled

disengage the root’s tallness, consider

the mausoleum swollen and seeds

have been spent and ruined




there’s not enough of heaven to cast

it’s spare eye, so ignore the butcher’s

easy scythe it’s sweep it happening

like a true blade of winter’s gnarled aim




there’s fallen and echoes pinned into

statues of being watched, pneumonia

starts it’s prowl and stalks it’s first

73 year old sheet thin antique




like hand prints dropping, like filigree

almost see thru’ masques, flutter like

caught gasps there to clothe

the quiet in skeleton cenotaphs



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