There is blood on the hooves of the fawns on the
Greensward Grey for they tread through the gristle on
the lawn today! Don't they see the roseate faces of my
wives as they lay, disemboweled, on the Greensward
Grey?
This park is rank and slippery! Skip and watch the kite
tails, don't trip on the entrails! White, and
ligamental blossoms jutting from the earth... when have
toadstools ever grown toenails?
These brains are old and tired but they have not
forgotten my harem from decades past, sundry screams
for the beast in the backseat!
Springtime is mythical, blood can be pastoral brushed-
on and painted after they've fainted! Pan-goats are
criminal! Hairy backs and abyssmal breath like a brown
bog, swamp-soaked and wet dog!
There is one woman walking on the Greensward Grey, but
I feel she'll be followed by a friend or three! Don't
they see the pink-spittle coating on my teeth that will
seal every kiss from my lips today!
I could classify dead, hooved animals! I could catalog
female corpses! But cattarh ruins my breath when
grasses reach and start my ending! I could classify! I
could catalog!
I am sitting like a cyst on the Greensward Grey and my
god! there are satyrs who are damp and fey! Iron-shod
and so hysterical! They lose themselves like dripping
red fauna.
