i lie in heaps
of the hidden canal
crab oyster and cockle shells
washed ashore
with watered whiskey
and drunken dreams
fields of ice
warm
my objects of virtue
adding another layer
of thick skin
in the theories
of men
my combustion
smolders
and rises
with a crackling marlboro
i exhale
rotting banana peels
moldy bread
and apple cores
of sir isaac
the pull of gravity
is a dynamo
of the ancient
black
and gates of hell
holy water dries
and mustard seeds
grow cold
with statues
of heavy stone
i see
winged creatures
and flies
and the raptors
i am a deposit
of skin and bone
and virtue
without wings
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
...sorry 
!
"Dude..." LMAO. 
