Greensward Grey

There is blood on the hooves of the fawns on the

Greensward Grey for they tread through the gristle on

the lawn today! Don't they see the roseate faces of my

wives as they lay, disemboweled, on the Greensward

Grey?

This park is rank and slippery! Skip and watch the kite

tails, don't trip on the entrails! White, and

ligamental blossoms jutting from the earth... when have

toadstools ever grown toenails?

These brains are old and tired but they have not

forgotten my harem from decades past, sundry screams

for the beast in the backseat!

Springtime is mythical, blood can be pastoral brushed-

on and painted after they've fainted! Pan-goats are

criminal! Hairy backs and abyssmal breath like a brown

bog, swamp-soaked and wet dog!

There is one woman walking on the Greensward Grey, but

I feel she'll be followed by a friend or three! Don't

they see the pink-spittle coating on my teeth that will

seal every kiss from my lips today!

I could classify dead, hooved animals! I could catalog

female corpses! But cattarh ruins my breath when

grasses reach and start my ending! I could classify! I

could catalog!

I am sitting like a cyst on the Greensward Grey and my

god! there are satyrs who are damp and fey! Iron-shod

and so hysterical! They lose themselves like dripping

red fauna.