my party hats have been hacking this green ****...
pitching these ill bent ravens and Q-tips
jinxing the midday with famine
and lightning
a brite spot of bother and dead garlands...
hard garters and soft mottoes
murmured in wisdom of dimwits
a false lovely.

needing things kills
and kills often
god ponders yonder as we dismiss...
but taunt.
you gain a third world
to keep your clean mind soiled
in brine
to pickle the pickle
indeed.

and
you haven't any sugar
in your tea.