f.o.d (fuck of death)

was i to
write this
poem it would
probably be too
much death
metal for any
one not to
growl it

tortured souls

a giant poodle

parasites

what if she
told you they

come in colours
& many different

shapes? a city
gone to ground or

settling in beneath
the waves. biting

both birch & dust. the
proverbial one no

less. & nessie re
mains where

ever she was a
few minutes a

go

the curse

was inflicted on
her purse. & to
make things
worse it started
rhyming. no

more. or to even the
score. the oar soared
off from the open
sores opened out
between the
ores. that wild

boar whispering bore
me bend me drug
me rape me. be
fore the war. & after
the fire ceased. julius

stood swiftly up

strappado

much ado about
a strapped up young
lad. just cut him
down & make a
run for it. leave
the uniforms to
work out the de
tails. de
railing their train
of thought. at an
excessive pace. lazily
flipping through the
channels. a canal
dug through your
kitchen. going
where?

maim to please

who? you? i
dearly hope
not. un
less you maim
me to please

who? do you
know such
people? do
you want
to know such

people? &
do i want
to know you
know such
people?

one foot in the grave

& the other in the
sea. sitting at a table
in the shade. young
face all wrinkled with
delight. talking in his
very own tongue to the
sparrows & the flowers
& the house & the
wind. listening intently
to the cars. might they
have some
thing interesting to
add to the conversation? the
train stops at every
farm on the short
distance between the
towns. & the foot in the
grave is moved to a near
by island before