I never knew how the screaming of doves
could follow you through a whirlpool of dessicated albumen
like the dancing feet of a jackal in heat
whose bloodied face dreamed of delectable foundations of purple hands
from which hung the silver cross of Ardennes,
home to the elephants’ jazz club
where the merry dismemberment of senators was a theme for blowing hot.
Cats dug the mountainside wine casks with flowing streams of stars
and wombats which circled the afternoon fair of delights.
“Death to the pigs!” screamed a solo ferris wheel collapsing like a tinker toy façade
upon the heads of utterly despicable weapons poised like green gorillas without hope.
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