April

This must be the month Jesus lubricates. All remaining neutrons have absconded with Finland, wings splayed gallantly over what I believe is Silver City. Arrows in concert with a fistful of talking bats, socialism knocking at the door, its golden voice the latest Cabaret Voltaire to astonish exactly half the street. The month of tenderness and cold teeth, spiralling languages both obsidian and a cybernetic raga played by fish as they are callously tossed around beards with Freudian altitude. Expand the nipples of spirit, the unknown blondes in orbit plus a moan to gamble away every cloud wearing a sepulchre of yellows. Locusts until the eleven o' clock news agrees to squeeze my thighs with lascivious intent, poetry to catch the elevator, arrives breathless and whirls into exotic oils spread gently over standard lips, surgical feathers in the wilderness. Am I wax, or another month of obscurities climbing atop steepled fingers to demand a limit on the number of suns?