The Drunken Boaot – for Geraldine Monk

 

 

Here Cherub kisses Ghoul where Ghoul kisses Cherub speaking through Ghoul. Cherub rubs rubs rubs rubs brass Ghoul shine to reflect Cherub via the moon. The reflection borrows an elbow from dirt dancing on a tongue speaking throughout the march that rubs rubs rubs. It won’t shut her up much as she marches towards the University of Night. It’s not so much a march more an elbow first shouldering through Cherub and Ghoul first-footing into…..

 

the forge.

 

A night off for elbow shifts the rub rub rubbing through a hill of geese. Where Cherub kisses Ghoul the hill rises through reflections of an earlier hill already steep with sickness that sunk there from pits in the air. Fire multiplies ripe apples inside the hill’s pipes where hidden Cherub greasily kisses Ghoul’s treasure that once shone and will sin again when Ghoul’s treasure kisses earth because where Earth kisses Universe speaks…

 

through a word witch.

 

There is no universe here just a suspicion of one. All stars are bound to fields of nebula bound for silver mine cathedrals. This silver cathedral is the church of shining mud she wants to see as the rising sun in the morning marching on silver stones of last night’s soil where Gargoyle talked to Gargoyle via the loyal ear to the phone of long-distance feline sleep creeping past fear of the stages of stage-fright rubbing out dancefloors without spitting a word walking out…

 

of the foundry.

 

Where Cherub hisses Ghoul tries to spark. Where Ghoul pisses Cherub tries to hide inside the hill that has no top. All of hill is at the bottom brushed clean by a stone combe through hair grown from bruises and nebulitic architecture blowing an elbow off the cathedral roof. No Earth here for language to shock into life’s brass necks munching into the silver cathedral with the mud of love caked on drunken boots whose spurs were forged in last night’s hill climb towards pub windows…

 

embroidered with distant lights

 

It still doesn’t shut her up much as she marches towards the University of Night with the stride pattern of a hare. Nocturnal mischief keeps in step even through the marsh of dumplings and spiked pools of shrunken water. Splash and polish. Laugh and demolish. Rebellion clambers amidst cross-hatching curses of linguistic joy embroidered with the blurring of rising Lancashire. The continent of mist climbs through pub windows into…

 

South Yorkshire

 


[Tim Allen is .]

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