Sarcophagi soil the galley decor.
Supplements creak like the Demeter,
conscious of leaks heretofore
cursorily scribbled in a ledger.
Clandestine as Carpathian umbrage,
a lordly, soulless stowaway
between a coupon for oatmeal porridge
and an ad for a Whitby holiday.
The schrecklich Schreck sidles
through silken frays of sectarian slurs,
infused with the fog of forgotten idles
and ministers for Machiavellian affairs,
covered in cobwebs of minor infelicity
fallen away from storage in steerage.
Preys on the arbitrary profanity of humanity.
Orlock in the orlop. Assent and demurrage.
Beyond pale. Long-fingered. Cloaked.
Asleep in peaty heaps of artifice.
There’s nowt so queer as a catafalque.
Can I trust my pharmacist?
I smell a colony of rats. Hard to ignore,
when taking the sport to the public howff,
the wooden overcoat by the door.
I cross myself when I go out,
keeping one eye on the eidolon.
Fantasy athanasy. Antisocial vocal chords.
The moral panics relied upon.
Knock, knock. The psychiatric ward.
Inky indignation. Windows of opportunity.
Hutter’s dressing gown aflutter.
Public figures punished without impunity.
Interested in the stars. Some in the gutter.
Limbs the leaden sins of politics.
Mandibles dripping with propaganda.
Too engrossed in parasitic tricks
to notice the sun on the veranda.
In the light of Monday morning,
lashed to the wheel with a crucifix,
values subject to my recording,
I silently munch my Weetabix.
Supplements creak like the Demeter,
conscious of leaks heretofore
cursorily scribbled in a ledger.
Clandestine as Carpathian umbrage,
a lordly, soulless stowaway
between a coupon for oatmeal porridge
and an ad for a Whitby holiday.
The schrecklich Schreck sidles
through silken frays of sectarian slurs,
infused with the fog of forgotten idles
and ministers for Machiavellian affairs,
covered in cobwebs of minor infelicity
fallen away from storage in steerage.
Preys on the arbitrary profanity of humanity.
Orlock in the orlop. Assent and demurrage.
Beyond pale. Long-fingered. Cloaked.
Asleep in peaty heaps of artifice.
There’s nowt so queer as a catafalque.
Can I trust my pharmacist?
I smell a colony of rats. Hard to ignore,
when taking the sport to the public howff,
the wooden overcoat by the door.
I cross myself when I go out,
keeping one eye on the eidolon.
Fantasy athanasy. Antisocial vocal chords.
The moral panics relied upon.
Knock, knock. The psychiatric ward.
Inky indignation. Windows of opportunity.
Hutter’s dressing gown aflutter.
Public figures punished without impunity.
Interested in the stars. Some in the gutter.
Limbs the leaden sins of politics.
Mandibles dripping with propaganda.
Too engrossed in parasitic tricks
to notice the sun on the veranda.
In the light of Monday morning,
lashed to the wheel with a crucifix,
values subject to my recording,
I silently munch my Weetabix.