Pitchforks and Torches (a wiery bull-pen)

There is a ticking in my head
which sounds a lot like children bathed in wasps
who are whispering pages of bible blue beaches.
I light plums on fire with annexed hands to well the nature
of mortgage-minds and stained-glass racketeers.
They exhume paintings photographed by princes and puzzled in a rather delicate fashion.
They say "runes put together the twigs" and talk about pyramids of insects with other cryptic things.
It's a museum of misanthropy upon their lips and cuticals.

The cameras hands camera-hands to the camera man, or atleast that was the plan
However in this damsel-land there a few, of an acute crow, to be repaired.

In a spindle breeze
the children, bathing in bees
look up - to where their pulse used to be.

They say "How unique, of woes we speak, dance-clap this ester-dream back into the sea!"

My head, a bundle of sticks
cracked in many places
We all know boughs do not bend unless we make them.





I need to work on this, i have no idea where its going