a high promontory

relax in coventry
species still smells like turd
the wild donkeys in clover grow wings bastions ascending
picturesque sheer cliffs the cantilever chandiliers
out over foot pounded mud plazas
circles as a family of investments
I imagine standing on hard packed mud viewing
a moon of pure blood
there's nowhere good to put your money anymore
the hipsters are hated and also do the hating
a poor cereal restaurant got painted on
a poor serial
a poor serial
old dracula he's studying insects now
and selling rare proteins
for compounds
I see a kind of ruin like a shoe which smells
of something soured in the rain
a slow reference to charcoal biscuits
something which I do not care to understand
the price of tea in china
the dogged mystery of the human heart
I poke it with a stick
and hope it leaves me alone
if only these wandering green canyons
of abject beauty went on forever
if only bat riders would descend
on the village
in a halo of cackling torches
while I relax in coventry
species still smells like turd