The Court of 18th Century Kellyville

I
All laced up
Through veils trying to breathe,
All laced up.

My knight in shining armour,
If only he’d slash me up
All laced up.

Questions fortuned in tea cups
Tea leaves tightened to not breath,
All laced up.

All laced up,
All gagged up,
Dresses masked as blindfolds
All laced up.


II
The chemical patterns of notches
Powered by power
Of sour lollies and coal,
White noise surrounds
Clings like gladwrap
Attracts rat traps
Of engineered beauty.

This is the sound of not a rose
But a rose thorn,
Switches flickering like a dying light bulb
Thus being planted in the ground
And hoping a light flower would emerge
If only the binoculars would note:
‘We’re on the verge”


III
I’m a sneaker with chewing gum on it’s sole
I’m the untied shoelace that drags behind,
Filter my voice
I am not worthy,
Let my voice be the ocean wind
Then whenever you pick up a shell
You’ll be able to hear me!

I’m feeling a bit sick of polka dots
And hot jazz emo’s.

Do you think puking up your guts
Is an adequate hobby?
I’m as pissed as a fart on (insert desire here).
IV
Eat me
Feed me
Eat me
Feed me
Eat me
Feed me
Consume me
Eat me
Feed me
Eat me
I am the divine
I am god
(with a pink bikini on).



V
Pretty disguster digesting my garden
Please leave my Chihuahua alone
Please let my tea set be.

Old man selling my house
Please loan my car
My wedding ring is yours.

Dear Ms. Vanity,
In this email you will find attached:
My husband
My children.



VI
Bleed into the cot
Sing lullabies to your siren children
Is it just me
Or am I paranoid?

Melancholy
Choliflower
Flower
Flour
(see how this world works?).

Sin, an idealistic
Ventriloquist form of
Passion
Fruit.






VII
Ecstasy strawberries asking you out to dinner
Fine plates of roast beef tempting your left nostril,
Hairs deep within stand like monarchy men.

An epidemic of messed panty loons
And tidy orgasms,
The stalks been a little tipsy lately
And sheets have been messed.

But the stockings are re-arranged
And hats are re-balanced,
The pianist re-affirms his place.



VIII
Magic and rabbits out of hats,
I can see that playing myself backwards
Will reveal a message or two:
“Do you believe in this?”

Do cupcakes really excite you
Sir?

Meanwhile
I’ll be walking away
With three masks covering my face
With giant scalpels as fingernails
With scales as scales of poverty.





IX
The rifle of flowers and pennies
Has been shot,
Amen
Do we think we’re sane?

Screaming gospel war
And children left at home
To play with Barbie dolls.

Glasses rims worn proud,
Old cars left in rivers
Old men left in junkyard.







X
And by this time
Aries is levitating over your grass
Slowly mowing it.

And by this time
Seven planes have landed in your back garden
And the survivors have grown a society,
Their beards are long
There clothes rotting.

And by this time
Oprahs on,
And your fitness machine’s been delivered.




XI
Two million mirrors
That’s your bathroom,
But behind every mirror is a cabinet
And inside every cabinet
Is a cocktail and a half’s
Worth of placebos and amoeba.

The sad men under your desk
Would really like to come out now
For they are beginning to turn blind
From the lack of light,
Beginning to not smell
Not feel.

And so red veins now litter your eyes
And you’ve started wearing glasses
And turtle necks
And long skirts
And beige.

But too late
The world just corroded.