Pretty Flowers… Prettier Hands… Damn! Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

And: Objections lens, itself towards thee,
to wit between, your view and which witch being meant;
then instant caustic, bee an irritant,
belay beneathe ones behooved breasts, so suckling sweet.

Instant lei, be tossed aside, each thoughts soul waned;
a lass or low behold, as star to Isis' suade,
centered such, two wills agonst each sole's tree knells;
glanced therein twined flames, compassionate sweets kissed.

Upon… that time, when all one's dreams held such mean,
perception's stout myth, a mystery, without mind's ends;
that battle, an epic fought, of words gentile friends,
becomes an adversaries clash of stinging bold works.

Serpent's touch, toothed and hooves, these daze dawns,
obsolescence twined there, retiring a black queens pawn;
tongue remiss, salute' pissed, reap that soul's reward,
begins thereunto compassion's truth: lets life rend.

And: these serpent's instants, glanced upon by them,
to believe one's chance, perusal's truth's circumstance;
calms ablution's thus, begins a Proust's objection,
dissing's hist, the shite hawks bled, one thousand hands spun.

Untoward comes the newest dawn, lines cleaned crowed,
dressage requites, the truth's word wright, this Lord's honed sward;
hissing's bless, an annuls bliss, twice rings interred,
choirs sing out; that heeled tapping lads reincarnated!