love-songs gone wrong...

In the space between
Sunday love-songs,

breaths and beats danced...

or, were they the
staggered steps
and shallow pleas
off an echoed cliff
to dead mens dreams?

Cursed are the clowned Messiahs
in a Trust of liars for they
drench the dears with typhoid tears

So, bring on the sleep
Sahara peace,
below the brow:
Clouds on clouds
surrounding now
3 Guinea pigs
who'll chase the
wee mice, down,
down,
o
w
n

Whilst in the wings
it's understood that
Torchwood heroes
chant
in hoods...

and they
Pray
and they
Pray
for mine
to sweat, the dread
from molten head,
bannish the mannequin
from this bed,
for it lacks the shine,
of my heart devine
of a
couple rhymes ago...

.

Mr. Darcy
© 2023