What a lovely view, she said, of the back of your head

Silhouetted by the supernova out the window

Framed by bulletproof limbs made of lead.

  On horseless chariot to the center of No the colour Bordeaux

He sped with sightless mouths and symphonies

To find houses made of airplanes and caps of mallow.

  With nightmares about elbows pickled and units bony

They thrash above the mess of their tangled fettuccini

Minds, singing to the woodwind wolves, Oh don’t crow me.

  We march with tin harlequin boots against blue meanies

And hope to vanquish our tin backbeat aches

Maybe one day our genies will be more Robin, less Sweeny.

  ‘Lo, the silent-slithering silver-tonsilled severance awakes.