marmalade

a fugitive
a small brown box filled with ultra fibs
Heavens gate was rightly just,
in giving the symptom and the dust.

House exhausted still it shakes
between the cracks of lovers mate
Twined in rank the fingers paint
til the war gleams and faints.

My King, he sings nightly tunes
of damned winged clowns spitting spoons

Runs low jumping soil
how fresh it looks to grip and spoil
over hill it seems to go
straining forward stubbing toe.

Soon the prowl will subside
and the moon begins it weary climb-
take its light for instance,
making marmalade of fire ants.

My King, he sings nightly tunes
of damned winged clowns spitting spoons

Parading, cycling to the hills
monkeys choose to quit their kills
for a turn of sanity
creates gems out of us, humanity.