Fitted kitchen contractions, disinfected façades, fake fears.
Electronic reproductions cut lemon fresh impressions as the warder ignites a gas burner.
An Equinox relay: we make contact.
Inside our nuts, we promenade in straight lines.
On galley fray these linear platforms yield to her hood,
aching for a domestic filling: a DIY day, set for Drilling.
It’s key-time. The shaving mirrors perpetually display
seven seconds to Sunday, delirium sleep is probable, if not certain of all fictions.
E-mail black-spots arrive in the post, orders, going dark in encrypted scullery lockers.
Complex sex – le petite morte, her cum face is disfigured:
an affinity is raw-meat on gorge. Fixing death to old masks and casual cadavers,
utensil regulators ration her chattering obscurities.
John the strangulator accelerates peak squirt timing,
drowning plants embedded, bogged in remembrance fields:
muck and gore lovers, holy units trudge
under cold covers.
Our Carnal cuisine is a mire of sheet camouflage
Lightening’s judder teeth beneath the sheets. Comprehending a wishbone,
torn-in-two separate cuttings. Oven doors slam shut.
Inside me, then into you, a sullied golden throne.
I mourn our mess, the human depletion; waste dispose, repose –
My grit could bud in a split second, given half a chance,
my disordered seed could spill over the edge of any silver table spoon-
full of prospective flesh cables, a non de ploom of seamen
clots on pretty tables.
Broken hearts and baby shambles trickle down the inside line of bandy legs:
unwanted Bambi buckling in the woods. Cylinder pistons compel E motion.
Her adoration engine is driven thin by honey tipped bullet clips, ejected
With hardcore human heat into menstrual meres bubbling White cells scatter,
‘man on the floor!’ . Female detainees,
It’s all very PC –
Tight-knit wet-rooms cramp G-spot fingers.
Olive spat, whale fat, fat of the goose. Our lips link lies for peace, let loose.
This temporal war of words snuffing out pip-squeak pilot lights. I can smell a gas leak.
‘In waking there is space less dark’, she whispers: and then –
Synthetic flask disregard
On Sunday bombs along
Chromosome child colonnade
A Christian song gone wrong
Blind eyes sling kiloton shapes to the wall.
Holding hands, we shelter from the leaf-fall,
while saints-row fledglings fall out, once and for all
converging sunspecs devout : Christ-rays. You entice lace.
Collecting tender spasms into a wood cup encased.
You shave and I kiss you there.
Our disclosure can be nothing, if not sour.
Emulsion coats feathered by stir-fried hairs: ‘did you check the gas?’
It's over now and a bucket on either side; cat gut lead weight pendulum swings
I'm drifting into thin. I'm dripping into tin.
Cold steel kisses this anti-man:
It’s over now –
I am lemon fresh