Poetry Blogs (allegory)
Pickles at dawn, pickles at dawn.
Don't let your father draw pickles at dawn.
Mustard Pickle is on the floor,
The Fish-Judge throws him smirks.
Their fruit is growing tentacles
And squeezes 'till it hurts.
The fruit unzips old onion skins
To bare the rotten flesh.
She sprays sour wounds with vinegar
To clothe the naked smell.
The fruit then puts on hy...
Sunday 12th June 2016 5:54 pm