Bugsy

Confidence fades away Clothes to the wind My cracking glass, the nightscape Contorted into vixen reds and apparition dark Seventeen Kitsch eyes, as kitsch as a child Crying in a kitchen scene over spilt milk Shrinking under giant flaming wings of a morbid sun god A flower in the rocks craving eleemosynary of sunlit droplets Dew sticking heavy, a glue to papier-mâché the fine parasol Poverty of any subtle scintella, a florid propinquity or velleity Slinking into the puissant moon dust but with all the style Of a dead inurement Sickert slick My sui generis malapropisms Cruel bowdlerization of a grouping wall and night The hard outer shell of flesh The ladybug, the thumb The ladybird and stupid shibboleth. _ Daffy, I said I'd write something called Bugsy :D