Stupid bastard celebrity chef
trying to poison the womens guild
with deadly salad error ,
and his speech impediment drools
rivulets of remorse ,
tosses deadly chills
among the terror .
The valium-addicted gum-pumpers
run ankle-biting chariots
in the aisles of Marks and Sparks
as deadly recipes are done and dusted ,
coughing vomit in the settling dark .
In the fields of pikey towns
where the henbane sprouts and grows ,
watched by spooks with driller eyes
and glossy plumaged crows ,
grown waxy on the fat of the dead ,
drunk on leakage that spills from opened heads .
Just so much raffia and taffeta
blowing in the illest of no-good winds .
The breeze brings purpled mumbles
from slashed and toothless mouths .
And the 22 women of a certain age
from the hospital on the hill
shall hold a vigil for themselves
and cage the rage that twists the chills .
Bottles of leonine baby spots
clink in the after shock of tremors
and straw straggled footsteps
betray the staggered path
dragged out on jacked up rotten femurs .
The fetid stink of putrification
is dogged by raucously rouged hyenas .
I love you really , poleaxed mannikin .
Let us dance the dance of hate , tonight .
Entwined in the grip of gothic solace
together as shadows carousing ,
spectralled in the bitter moonlight ,
hot faced from rustling passion ,
fired up from fluids losings .
In the dawn of bleak crow fields
nothing now is moving .
Published on writebuzz®: