Mornings Out

A slight nickering shave...
Time was when this quaking kingdom
stood on the edge of a blade
lip licking,
the sight of my blooded pores
an invitation to dance
while prudish sunlight flickers stumbles
in the vacant hall,
a crowded morning crawling
to an irrational tabla beat.
Tiny motors serve motion
& off-white noise,
the sound colouring of newly turned apple meat.
Certificates of normalcy curl corners.
Then,
All the tall boots were fitted
with handy, hungry knives
embracing feted calves.