My glove she weeps like pirates, without ice-cream or pilates

sudden spray she's hateful, but she's blue like ice-filled choirs

flatulence made of cobwebs,

graveyards enjoy one another,

my garden-rake won't shudder, my pinto or my

steel-soft brother

in the dance of lance-edification, people undulate in certain parts of Birmingham

my shove prates, she's not a spoon-slide phoney

(or a celly, when I can't

smell her)

.

stair nose

un-glue orchid-aim

.

fingers in peanut sauce stutter

tinted deciduous arrow flutters

my smothered angle dangles, from your yes...... like a spring or a grail

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