Wolves egg blood
turned over horses
blood burned butter

When the brink vanishes
the furnace swallows its
Mothers pastoral tongue
which is heard echoing
through 1000 years of
Dead mouths

Beauty flings its severed head
cavalier in fashion
over the overdressed mob
who are steel nippled
penised and toothed
maggots of war

Through my scratched window
about the black scaffold made
from my own insomnia
No ocean can rinse the blood
from that fabric