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I always pictured
angels as a sort
of apperceptive helicopter,
Kryptonian psychiatrist
or interdimensional fallguy.
But mute angel of mercy
suppressing suspiration,
who withheld their number
& was on the line for
seconds at 7
a.m. this morning was you,
I knew
it, checking I was alive
after my BPD jive.

Like a thumbsup from
Lottohanded giddy aunt God, profound
as Enceladean heavenplumes
organic compounds
bead. But I'd rather
discover there was still life in our
remaining *-X'd
petnamers & injokers,
exchanging angel orca,
our kremlinology of ultrasound Eros.
Awaking next to you
- phew!
After a febrile siesta,
like a jammy sailor

shipwrecked upon the shore
of home of all places.
Snug as alien orcas under
Europa's ocherous linea, chaos
terrain, in Jovian lunar caverns
measureless to mantas down
to a sunless sea, our
mooner's pod duets
in cryptolect,
tho' my mooner's
pods
recede,
wellhung as Orko
at proto-razbliuto,

fond-to-neutral farewell in your
plaint. You have no
right to resist my other
worlds, clam up on our orca argot.
I am your Stalker God,
you my orca pod
centrefold,
who checked I was alive
after my BPD jive.
I love you so much I'll leave you on hold.
Eruptable,
undumpable,
how can you resist
an interpersonal terrorist?
Paul Jones Dec 2015
Burnt ochre, brittle     and blackened since bloom.
In death's repose, the     roses are refined.
26/12/15

— The End —