this is a troublesome little one, I can't really decide if it's a keeper or set for the knackers yard

oh leviathan

dashed, bereft, under hanging skies
that mirror your sagging pall
I stand, Ishmael, to your bloody demise

amidst the niveous fulminating
and hovering nebs
where Neptune  chose to serve your ruin

fit for its absolute picking
by those who need and others that greed
...

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seen through the columns of rising smoke

the intention couldn't be clearer

while the tattooed roads wear the organic stains

as footholds for a memory of fallen phosphor rain

yet more caustic the harvest we reap

from the drone-grown, crone wept bones

even as the stone groves grow over the dead hope of

the pebble eyed children in their dreamless sleep

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all selling, or telling

forgot about the gelling together

of aught that matters

till we tipped past the point

of diminished returns to ruminate

instead on what a rich man earns

and caponised the germ

of all that once promised

in a swinish lust to fill our own pockets

gave a child faced strangler

the keys to the bank

to share the gold...

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frozen

the  page  needed  turning

yet  my  hand  between  her  legs

scorned  a  classical  warning

for  that  girl  got  an  untamed 

grit  in  her  eye

the  unchained

proper  reflection

of  an  unalterable  sky

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