The thirteenth dream of Dr Sardonicus
began with the vision of a hairy butt,
delicately divided by a perpendicular thong
and falling sand, from wet parts, as it plodded
coarsely along our line of sight.
Shore and sea - immaculately seperated.
The edge of what's known;
between a hirsute moon
and the submarine unknown.
But here we spit upon picket fences peeling whitewash,
expunging gobbits of vernacularities through fluted lips.
Scraping our agonized skulls with shattered seashells,
annointing our heads with ashes of burning beds, and
images of crack vials decorating the concrete south of Houston.
Frowning at sand castles, we are stolid in our mortality,
biting our tongues to add colour to bile,
waving rapiers of poisoned wit,
rinsing canyons of spiritual erosion,
with the outflow of twelve passed pints.
Taking pleasure in watching the dance
of an empty Skittles wrapper
caught in the steaming flow.
[edit on 17-8-2005 by masqua]


