The tide pools
and pygmy lakes
are mounting up
to bleach the quake
of tie-dyed eruptions
for miner's sake,
the salivating sight
of a single finger's shake.

Strap bleeding,
pickled iodine insides
quiver in the brew
for the sake of fermenting.
The adherence of order
dissects the fantastical claims of the heart.

Rabid biting
rituals lost,
the silver foxes
are turning soft;
as bleached eyelids
and manicured hands
come together
in silicone lands.

The emperor no longer diddles the parlour maids.

05/19/2016