Depot of Pain

By | 28 February 2013


The sloth to my having being sandwich hand steep,
so may we marquee sloth to not stoop
Rolls Royce, don’t move, around them moves
derby droves, strewn wishes
of rebarbative stone fishes. NN. Struth
ventriloquy. Through city I speaks easy entrance
free, tepee clone.

The long history strokes empire, gainfully employed,
but markedly ostracism. There, Marquis,
Kate Middleton and William Wordsworth come up
for tropics air like its live mercury set
cranium demonstration-like-Zaha-Hadid-metamorphosing
1/10th model-embedded, the history cake
containment in vitreo. Metaphysical suspenders.


It’s like smart alec spoliation, pillage absolute
in posthumousness, across the known diocese,
alp to plain. Convalesce valley of the virgins, spay
your first neighbour. Journalism turns faster
than the previous punnet, the first of four had white
blooms of spoil. He force-fed strawberries to begin,
our unconscious hours, strawberry milk, as our agent advises,
when we confide,
like mongrels as masterless as the cynic.


First mention of the hung cloven foot slung
for sweetness, and if not sweetness sweetness of the marvel
at this compassion for
neoteny. Who said blood ran bloodless veinless femur,
white as rain! Toddler saddles the international toggle doner,
his grand vision beyond direct intervention action incarnate
the falcon by sovereign suspension, unshot by gun
and unmaimed by dog. The duck he condescends, but Juno’s
And what if you were assigned by HBC this cynic’s Sabbath
time to sew the latest flavoured milk crop,
or the variorum edition of architect juvenilia,
Stand up dear child let me see your tear ducts, you redden.


So called sloth stymied, but hirsute beyond years and my reputation
precedes me lichenly. Hydrofoil or hovercraft, Yakushima
or Tasmania, mood: solar nude. Your hand
parroting me. Starch on the irrefragable surface cake and silicon
unburn, at least this measly pulpit eats.
When the ghost up and walks it tokes poplar drive and wrong turn
for our Fairlaine bushwhack with tepee, juvenilia,
the desert funerals. To think we’d meet your foster parents
slunk on main street,
maybe the curmudgeon rest stop with pompous Samaritan phone,
since it divines but we beggarly.
Poorly, pregnant asp for a sinus, Geelong checks its Modernist warranty
for renovations on the sacristy for Hermes,

the name making no plaques for the mass dead, mind you,
mind all of you scurrilous dependents
of Temple Bar Pulley System, as early as generation your nails
are chalk, your quail talons for digits
since a pulley even takes the ring from the can of coke,
bane of your fumbles. I say loiter the shit out of the apocalypse
post-coitus. Waratah sport.

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