BEOWULF WIP XVI…

Go slow thin father      fading must
swarthy headache        to end boning
middle finger               faith embarrassing
for her broken             heaven by night.
 
Forlorn, he goes out                sawtooth dinner fork
over island jailing                    our skilled inkblot
phallic fortune wield               false telegram
over and against healed            grimy rice.
 
Heartburn healthy                    flowers here again dead
manage her Mage                    only forgetting
born helpless                           she was better phonetic.
 
Sudden tapestry                       fearing gold
sending wool fingers               over various creak
oily maidens’                          humid aphid swarm.
 
Sores meet to scan                  and soften my numb   
human anger.                           What meek rumble half ass
answering he wrote                  with his heated sanctum–
Fair need, aching from it,         his mind flattered.
 
Why keep going on                 naughty words for Israel?
On groundless greeting           God is made
fondle seasoned                       daddy, get off me!
Fall off the belt anon               before drinking
our oily wage                           or it makes us
pray die and be ourselves        biting full on
grand escape                            imagination aching.
 
Funny western metal               unmercantile
drape seller threw a fit             on daylight
ill bank teller                            bled the best.
He’ll hear a dreary                  antic for drapey lace
to our disgust–                        fever, the aftermath.
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