the sky a colour of an ash tray,
formidable in its bulges
and monarchical approaches,
like a proud stag
   oblivious to either mountain
or sea...
    within it hints of plum
                    clown purple and
painfully tender hues of pink
tulips watered down...
           yet within it, the crown:
a symphony of geniuses,
   an
     exposed cranium of a godhead
lost in thought standing on
   its head, mid brain-surgery...
   synaptic zigzags
         and glimpses of
     eye-watering neon fusion
of plum clown tulip
   against the cigarette-mâché:          
        works of wonder appearing
and disappearing within a blink
of an eye...
                      blitzkrieg fantasia...
on a canvas of a sleeping town
    once busied in the art of metallurgy
a capitulated dwarven kingdom
   and an exodus of at least 20,000 souls,
dispersed like semites...
     brothers Aries and Hephaestus
talking of their mutual concerns
and the dole of peace labouring
for invigoration; settled hearts and
the lost causes of romance.
    prior, by a sort
of Beijing humidity, like spreading
butter over the body and merely
waiting for the monarch...
          in a slothful second,
      the grumbling stomach of a beast
raveging, jumping to nibble
   at a  scotch shortbread vollmond:
     with its eyes of eclipse,
                 the disgruntled beast,
coming in second, drooling saliva,
                bell, host and Pavlov.