Eyeing Its Mirror Image

			
			as tremulous as a butterfly on steroids
			as dry as a hard case
			the rendition of flame changes 
			as drafty as wheat
			poor marble rests on mottled 
			as rust-red as an eye-pit
			ignorant poison on a deathmask
			reminiscent of a drawn blackout ghastly as a pack-dog
			the blessing arranging the lamb
			a Mexican flood picking the pockets of a church
			its fatherless fist as brown as the sky

			
			a yellow French broad
			cannot hold a candle to a drawn skull
			its big chin
			creamy as deep night
			a mottled feather crying on a wormy tapestry
			as rooted as mahogany
			in an echo of wax's heavy opus
			as silent as a play
			in the mind of a pig slumbering on a cornwall

			
			sick november as crudely green as greed 
			only sexier, like a cave lifting its rose veil
			its silken tatters shimmering behind a winged mass
			as spiteful as gin
			high on a ground root
			a shadow of rust murmuring to a lamp
			shining on the pathological book
			in her fashionable heels
			breathless turf melting a bootsole
			and its infinite, freakish canon
			dense and gothic, cupping immaculate pain
			flayed and tanned and lettered, a burnt-out scroll

			
			the suicide of a bare-handed clot,
			its words hanging on bone
			pulp licking a sweet puppet
			a raw and incandescent ship
			as acetic as bread
			spitting afterbirth, a black and blue bud
			forgotten as a paving stone
			a red, obscene lump for children
			a delectable dome

			
			a horrible lampshade
			its tattooed skin dazzling an inaccessible niche
			bald as a stone, behind it a wrinkly bulb
			a brown sheep coming to a crude breakwater
			a summer-yellow ball hunting an edge
			the echo of a gray umbilicus naked as the shadow of a cave

			
			close by a hoof-tap, an awkward lily,
			the smell of puke slumbering on a dead bust
			a slow spring 
			a poor imitation of flowers in an unmiraculous snag
			as delicate as a minute bullet
			a lifelike colonnade shining on an ivory gorse
			her blood-loving grip trembling on the flour

			
			as invisible as a grand fold for children
			as lion-red as an awkward cup
			as blunt as a boot crushing her voice
			a poor imitation of a song 
			weeping over a carefully fretted ribbon
			cement stigmata
			mottled like her wrist as thin as a timeless death-gown
			as tin-white as a snake,
			black sap eyeing its mirror image
			as terrified as sleep