Tuna On the Cob

Scented ember a moulted smoulder Skied as crackling softness Spied and felt thru a film of dexterity Uncalibrated, solvent, translucid Trance and dance Street fleet, guttering inhabited by creased indoctrination Yet to be ironed Yet to be pressed and left on the stoop Cornered like bluefin, fed, foddered and canned 'Til the ink runs dry Dust, seen but not sawn Settles on my pine needles Green hue askew now turns to blue Appointed to the disjointed and as hard edges glint Drones trudge thru sludge to fund the mints (I know these words are bare, and that this poetry is bleak but it's channelled from a source which I seek. A clear blue nectarous swivelling blissmist.)