Leaving The Vampire Breathless

Snow is a vagabond oat, dear.
It permeates winter: this wandertime
stooge who'll traipse, come to town-- thin
vanity semi-schooled, fluorishing
six-tongues unholstered.

We'll call it shock-- the toxic
accretion of some comic pain.   Your hand
is a sandwich for children
who magistrate--
   On your sad knees!
Sodding river.

The meter slows-- hammer on tarmac.
Decant the old words, crack
one rust-colored fuse.  I've licked
the sparse wine from the glass-stem
                        in what you
laughingly called a silk suit--
                                 Bus stop posing.

      When were you radiant, angel?
What stray cull stillbore you? You cradle
thin bowls.  Lend me one,
Danaud, I'm bailing; I'm bound
      to your side by a stone.

Come, come aerie!

      Take flight to your reason-filled haven.
Perfection comes ordained: it's sanity, rouged
by the miracle images kept of ourselves,
untarnished by parallax cues.

                              Too, too cozy.


      Stop bleeding feng-shui on my table.
I take back my life.  I have no wish to be your
white-coated gentleman of needles and plums,

      Tick
            tick    tick tock

tickle


(coughing)