Typhontese Visions, Meat Disc Monocle

fear not, for if I
rejoin you not
to rub your baloney
eye-patch
in the courtyard
of the citadel

it is not because our
yurts are made from
the bodies of enormous
white crows
whose heads are like
hard clusters
of mangled gem-stone
control panels

frothed with worm-holes
which now sing with silk
as if threaded through
a magical sponge
and conjoining into some
distant beard
who bodiless head
like a censor-tram
moves up the last
unconquered peak
by a thread whose
mystery endureth

beyond even the smell
of your baloney eyepatch
of your thick german sausage
monocle

pink like
argentine
armadillo

would that your
transparent alabastar
breast-plate factories
had not occluded all
of is tan bull
with their tacky khaki
gristlings

crimson donkeys
greet us
fitted with
jawless violet
geode heads
whose empty
brain pans
are carriages
where our little
books are laid

outre
swan-like
once read
by the feelers
from our tear-ducts

our eyes
like gnashing
bat's teeth
enameled with wind

our raggedy Tudor garb
typhodial
with typhonts