Word’s best dot a golden apple

In the sand of skies, box in hand

Her here with this soul at the pump

A derelict to the world he made being

Dapper, fat, alive, and shrieking.

My dense hurrah I missed it

In my bustle or my trestle (whatever gender)

Missing. That’s the fact­­––springing

From the forest of deeds in costume

Ready to be bitten as a busy architecture

Takes a breath from its host

And mimes a love in money.

Lines

No vernacular psychosis is a hideout.

Chenille shade dogs rule the junk planet.

The nest emanates from a superceded power,

Human Beings able to fly.

Steel strut bars and towering bolted

Triangles requited by the shape of time

When to be free was to be guilty.