I pay no heed to the signs
At least the ones that don’t float
I hid the body in Rome
And jacked up the legs under my body of work
I need a backpack of rope
To jack my paintings in trees
Dark umber visions of foul gluttony
Flickering fires are floating in the fens
These are not visions of hope
Still, man, I try to be better than
Devotional poetry
Seven quick knocks and you will know that it’s me
I come from over the sea
But only floating angels can float over our sea
Howling that the children have been seen
Raiders raid the salons and the salons are steamed
Roll on, you band of free
Flickering fires floating in the fens
These are not visions of hope
Still man, the same as it ever was
Distress in my chest, the same as it ever was
There’s distress in my chest
But try to be better than
The falconer’s mom (or)
The falconer’s arm
But still you can’t always run from the freeze
But you can’t always count on the breeze
A prom is a dance only for teens
And you should always, always, try and get ahead of the freeze
To the falconer’s sweet mom
I say, “flee from harm”
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