Masader Ader
This
glove knotted cry “Masarder Ader!”
this morning, tear wreathed, scratched hanker,
a handsome now, and gregarian taunt,
ah, so gentle imp, burning daggering tongue,
cleave you then, in churtsy,
yes - cleave in daemon spat two.
So, see brickered lean, that jousting rose crescent
descend through the midst of my cursing daint,
through salting tomb chorus rows.
Starling click stare - friend,
Macbeth’s murderous banshee.
As it were.
Now, the ghastly
snatching smile,
rock yelled manner.
Only the shoed daring soldier (but one shoe then)
would turn this sprinkled ominous draft, pulling like sputum,
over a hot laver,
singing sweet barbed twistings
of rythmic shamanic chattering blood laughing
down the barstards unfinished chin.
No, do not
be with your dancing gaping crescendo neck,
mawling skirl upon your own highland hill.
So, do listing hear,
cavernous, your sweating whisperings emerging
spent from the brittle deep lair,
alive - opened pussed - but alive.
Hear me!
... And thunderously well!