The clock towers above the city, her
Moon face freckled by Roman numeral
Red and bruised gears churn inside like anxiety
And drop tremors her steeple, dress for a funeral.
Speaking of trees, sweet amber caroline
is in a bottle of whiskey
rolling inside a purple suitcase, with his sinister buddies
and burping over multi-coloured cobblestones, that no horses walk on.
For today is Sunday;
The sun makes a prism out of everything
and you smile and the winter landscape smiles back at you (pl.)
flecks of white light reflected on your face like snowflakes
Black fleece cover linked arms and wind, love, musses your (pl.) hair.
The clock towers above the city, her
Moon face freckled by Roman numeral
Red and bruised gears churn inside like anxiety
And drop tremors her steeple, dress for a funeral.
Otherwise, there are no fish in the river,
The fishermen are at home with their slimy wives
whose bellies they slit open and rub grains of salt into the fishy flesh.
Mother collapses,
like the chickens raised for food on factory farms
mammoth bodies fold in on slender limbs.
Smells of straw and decomposing muscle tissue
Lethal squawking racks the rafters.
Father Christmas and his nine ghoul dancers
squirt through the skies and sit in the shadowy parts of the room
while your family traditions unfurl like a flag
and sitting cross- legged in your pajamas on the floor
you can only see His eyes
and their tiny, shiny, bloodstained hooves.
The clock towers above the city, her
Moon face freckled by Roman numeral
Red and bruised gears churn inside like anxiety
And drop tremors her steeple, dress for a funeral.
