Dance the Sycamore
Her partisan skin melted
to a grey pale paste
Debauched in glory
and Moaning Lisa when she gave up the ghost
for skin weaved
under the light of a Venus beam
mounted the demon hill and lay a backhand on my throat
The universal untold and unfoldeth
by chance
we are a million miles
into the dance
A hungry mongrel child
- Atlas’ apprentice
Dancing Moaning Lisa in silver gown
rolls herself and nowhere to lay my baldy head
She reigns underneath the sycamore
for a speck of dust in her eye lies
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