Cortex Malverde

O does this green chain
come from the navel of Edgar
Allan Poe whose fleece is
white as snow, whose lips
are green as chimneys made
of pips, like sailors
in sunk ships now sleeping
far below?

Green Chain?

Yes, I do see a green chain,
like a sausage rope of brains
pulled from an esophageal head
like some bauble made of lead
and plummeting to earth away
from me, who, left standing
on the balcony, holds the rope
of brains.

Green Chain?

Yes, now I see the bulbous skein
as held by Ray Milland who feeds
the brain rope down into a machine,
whose description I would be pleased
to feed down upon this page.

Green Brains?

Yes, and in a chain, fed down into
the parasite oddity machine poem animal,
a giant jeweled skeleton dog-head snake
flashing and sparking with electrical hairs,
and bearing a blowhole where, the green
chain enters in, to swim down into the sluicing
drain which is in fact a mouth, insane,
for gobbling and gobbling is its name,
a joke upon the pain, gob ling, gob lang,
here comes the strang of brains,

and Ray Milland plays his part
like Alfalfa with his fuse or spring,
an acceptable change, from the character
of Edgar Allan Poetry.