i am slipshod Monty
wonking the gossamer lust of ill fortunes
strewn to all winds
a lisp of  beacon
churning in the midriff of your titan virus

crumbs of ore
bejewel the wet femur
of our last corpse.
your merry Shelly
is morose
than less
god.

bending runes; you nip tink and bong from odd drums
summoning the haven of your wrong

repenting in the
pent up
down.

just 'cause.