BURGUNDY
Burgundy coughs
alive in LCD blood
and chinking cups of armour,
a m-(an)-other feeds her skull through carapace lips
screened.
It read your name
by the fingers and hands
raised dots and peoples
manifest
slid upon the film over lungs and hearts and minds
around the smile of the suckling skull
I invite the next patient to my stirrups
cold intrusion
waking in the droughty sun
the tales regaled by a tired Midas
sifted into his throne of rose
pearls set upon the plywood
the archetype submerged in dust once thought as gold.
Burgundy coughs
alive in LCD blood
and chinking cups of armour,
a m-(an)-other feeds her skull through carapace lips
screened.
It read your name
by the fingers and hands
raised dots and peoples
manifest
slid upon the film over lungs and hearts and minds
around the smile of the suckling skull
I invite the next patient to my stirrups
cold intrusion
waking in the droughty sun
the tales regaled by a tired Midas
sifted into his throne of rose
pearls set upon the plywood
the archetype submerged in dust once thought as gold.
limowreck:
That poem is awesome. Oh and to answer your question: boxers, my good man. No one can do those Y-shaped things anymore!