Friday, December 2, 2011

Word Salad

Prick fingers, shed fangs,
shiver shingles above the slither
of closing window-panes;
play porcelain 'round rain-slick thighs,
tell the alabaster duchess
to control her liquid sighs;
wither wicker rocking-chairs
with the holy-ghost's flame;
filter light through ashes,
flirt highbeams, bleed names,
fan black feathers
and hide in the darkling wind,
find an invitation to rescind;
send a letter, pay a phone;
round the corner
on your way home;
lay labor, play at patrol,
weave lichen like snakes,
take toll;
cut the red-navel ribbon, rip bones,
layer skin over skeletal thrones;
laugh pausingly, forget a black sail,
leave a crease
in the palm of your tale.

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