Treadstone

Full-grown lambs loud
bleat from hilly Jason,
and wit, too pissed
to scream “voilà la guerre!”
attacks few-winged cookies.

Bug the hanging heart.
Lack, your name be known,
breaded, stripped, lip-clicks.
Sunken foal, flailing in pungent cider,
happiest lynch – you left
the door of care worms
where such salty sprayed-on style be open.

Same-named compounds
eat out a living,
blue shrugged off with jigs;
bottles in the distance,
stone me if I cared less,
dampen must-see laws.

A
tooth seared mum would do.
At ease, fellow mod;
ology, ology widows widest.

High Tea

So, Sesame Street, return of the silk vessel. Big.
Out, damned spot! Out, ice age!
Ijsvogels book of French France, zweet in de namiddag.
Ijsvogels knikken hun hoofden op de muziek. High tea.
Buiten bereik van ratten. Miniscule goddelijke koekjes.

There is no place for humorous incidents or love affairs.
This is no place, no time. This is pure hop, bursting
with the wild, rich with scattered child.

So almond-shaped were her eyes that she became
an object of worship.
Ontsnappen op haar kleine tepels? Zomer en sla. Onnozel.
Zodra de Ijsvogels smelten wordt massa toegevoegd
aan schilderijen van de oceanen van bier.

There is no place for humorous affairs or love incidence.
There is place and there are times. This is purified hop, bursting
with wilderness, rich with rooted child.

Highest tea priestess, suburban wizardry of rural witches.
Bigger birds. Ijsvogels, helicopters, burned gebeuren. Whose hilly bourne?
Een multi-muziek van de middeleeuwen, opgediend
op gele borden, met Darjeeling en
miniscule goddelijke koekjes.

High Tea met dappere ijsvogels en Persian pickles.