By Richard Mather
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That is Cardinal Murky O’Sinner
lying this foggy midnight
on the cradle of his drears and prayers,
preparing a sourmen that’ll deconstrict-n-derail
the embryonic labia polizei of the cathylic hearse.
The cardinal’s linga ranges from jockeys to halftocracy.
His ruptfirm swells round an inaequus animital,
blackens his core parts.
His formula “as bishops go” to suggest
the screening of.
Faith supposed to fructify. A list of_
a herdsman who cannot herd;
an efflux of scattered thieves on the roadside;
a captain of the hundred;
the universe in a cheval-glass;
the look of a horseman with a sword and a pistol at his side;
a secretion of like a statue that spits;
blasting and mildew;
worms in the vineyards of men;
a full blaze of irritation_
“Wretched is the man who can relinquish
the cry of the goldfinch on a cleft tree,”
were her last words before she dyed
(her hair black as raven’s feet).
“Let us pray for the sacred antibody,” he ends it
before turning out the light of the world.
So poor Murky lies and ponders the nature of his calling.
Around him the world spins and spins,
yes the world turns in spite
of Murky and his troubles.
Somewheres in the distance
Murky’s mother sits and spins,
sitzunspins, sitzenspinks.
Think of poor Murky and bless him.
(The overdrift of a blue over red sea.)
And so the ruptour goes on.
Faith supposed to fructify.
A plant that dies and dies in a black hole.
Cardinal in a revulsion.
His tongue ran(g)es in dead matter,
Sorrelly speaking.
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