All these spice drums have tiger stripes.
I followed small dark shadows
down down down to the daft bay singing like the moon
or like a ten gallon drum of tea-oils.
This town, this town shivers in the sun like nubile teens,
but now I feel sick. Sick deep down in jungle-vined pit
where date seeds have taken hold and strangled my guts.
(To clarify, everything in the vision was red.)
Luckily I have guts to spare, luckily I have guts to spare.
Too many tricky thumb-beats for a wretched spot
where tiptoe is a dirty word.
The weave of spinning numbs a soft crack in my eyes,
a remnant sick with candle vines. A remnant,
not the wealth of drink. Gulping is an angry sport
from digging like you're motorized. Digging here.
A shovel for a moonbeam. A moonbeam for spitting up the afternoon.
Hold on, insides: a tricky ride. A leafy grin.