Blue in red hell,
not where the roses rot,
but where the rotten roses sniff unsmelled.
The heart’s not warm, but caged in cold,
told the warmth-made water would only feed mold.
Cleanse the black rock o’ fuzzy green monsters.
¿Why e’en bother with those who don’t e’en bother?
¿Find these fish fit O so snugly
in the sunset-drenched canyons o’ Sorrow Ugly?
Show you on the newsprint where the ink smudges—
I just fudge it,
’cause this isn’t it the grudge pit?
With femurs & hamshells,
where the woods sip lakes from the moonlit elk.
That’s such a flimsy pelt.
That’s such a flismy fingernails.
Catch the yolks in all the rain pails.
Find me where the bent cardboard boxes hug me
in the charred forest corpse copse called Sorrow Ugly.
¡Night!
strikes so early;
but its early strikes are stricken so early,
trampling the trampled grass in a hurry.
¿Whither to wither unseen?
Come with me
to the moondown that is Sorrow Ugly.
Coming this fall
that fells us all.
