kings1

It is notching much
when saints decline my invitations
or boughs bend low with salivating monkeys
all apeshit with useful priapisms,
the most primitive of tools,
to speak to me
in their charming novocainal drawl,
of great, abstracted kings
and regally promiscuous gifts.
They had bitten the badly aimed hand
and begun a gesticulation revue
that, to my mind,
beggars the bowl and builds this biography of errors
and these dislocated penchants.
All go to a matchbox perdition,
that zoological playscape
where we place our trifling trust.