Down mines of dreams, as righteous owls seek flight Wise in copses, wend and wheel claws won Seek out their right, eyes glower bright Floodlit prey, scurried lives now done. While Cinnamon turns pale Bottom to the sun. Down vines of dreams where boatmen cull the oars Of when and want and hurried scum Hunt for friends and foes among the mores Of do that and this and never come Although through want and wait, the day is done. Stalk the woods of yesteryear Smudged with effort, tiny ructions And here flying lopes arrives the trundled heather Curious at these miniscule debouches Its time will come again and always bear Away the feeble bundles of life’s fear. Above the ruins strive, develop carbide blues Whistle to the skies of care and woe When discharge down the medication of the boos Mooted nature shits her dough Smothers foreign animals with strife Doomed to ever struggle for another life. Time was, such condiments were not Stocking hips ashine, heels whirl against the sky Hair cream broils in the moonlit cot Struggle in the tiny room, endearments fly Inside the space where questions die. It is a good master followed Across torched fields of words and glistening worm As the dead disciple searching for a life Such fallen empty corpse, a mind in fallow Turns around to suck the juice of empty pome Hunting for a terminal and bloody strife. Hails the hail bouncing off a head Chews raw kale that scours the stomach Stoops and crouched in nettles of the bed Searches vain for muddy jewels instead To stud the message flung wild to the monarch That benign, slams the door on what was said. As long-eared wise sit about their council Pouts of corn grain twist shucks of travel Looked upon by seedy seats and mellowed ill Of know-not how or when to ravel Thrashed by ownership hard bound Cries and churns of makeshift marvel At the accidental chorus of bright sound Beaten black by sweat and charred as evil. Buds, sods, trunks and gushes The roars of men and women’s flushes Pour doom over hill down rushes Crimson filament of dying day Whittled stems and cracked trunks sway In the soaring buds of May. Such burst upon and round the senses Tickle sneezing lust and disarray On bracken harvest scooped from fences While the tenses lost search for Monterey Beneath the glisten pals of long gone benches Spitted forth from begin.