Encolpion xxxix.


To be so truly out of tune,
my transformation is near complete:
disfigured to a gross balloon
with little hands and little feet.

Slouched, cowlicked, a sleeplessness that
makes any smile look concussed,
jabberwockt, a jowly fat
who cannot pin his nautilus.

Into the gullet a gilded spike,
beset with vanity and lust
with circumspection, it is like
lighting the park closed at dusk.

In what balance do the violent go?
In whose Order pray you now?
 

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               © Habley Mouse, a Private Press, 2011.  All rights reserved.  (Poetry by William Frank)
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