If love burnt your hands were you
at the hearth Of its creation
Furnace of piroclastic lanes
Gloved words thrown down
Amongst castanet flames
those that drowned their sorrows
usual Drank in the constant forests
of Black mood turned right
Bookmarking irrelevance
Behind linguistly calling eleven
At the Hundreds of thorny
Paws leaving trails to
Dead rose beds left
Unmade with the only
Plough in the night skyline
Free from neon clouds
If love burnt your hands
were you at the hearth
Of its creation.
.
and where on earth are you.
.
Feasting on gated hypnotist
And client of cerebral abused
junguist digiting diary.
