I Dreamed This Two/Too

I declared a war on nothing,
Just to let it win.
Two-foot Uncle Bingo
In his bumper widow car
Dictates the letters of the word
That spoils the air
With purple spores
That barely care about the
Dawning of the eve
Of the affair that
Makes us widows of the world.

The mirror sleeps in subterfuge
As swelling tides ashore do creep
Condemning crimson cripples,
Wastrels insulate their nipples
'Gainst the gastric milk of death
With each breath a toxic tipple
Granting blindside to the
Birthing ot the wake of
The mistake that
Makes us widows to the world.

When Siamese septuplets separate
The seas collide, and so the torrid orgy ends
And Uncle Bacchus
Holds aloft his glory friends
Whose mantra swallowed by the wind
Is putrid as the dogs who sinned
And barked their syrup up the U-bend
Choked on junk while others grinned
At the irascible aroma of the
Waking of the woe that
Freezes over our denial
That we're widows to the world.

When sultry, sleeping seraphim
Arise and mail their blessings
To the Pope, all decent residue of hope
Dissolves in thick and foggy bruises
Buried in the skin like mites
Chanting an archive of abuses
In an alphabet of nights
That spell the bloodsport
Of the Blackened Knight
Crusading 'gainst the
Quivering, backstabbing,
Broken widows to the world.

When decorated soldiers
Where their barcodes like medallions
And the feted falcons blush
Their blueing beaks and peal
'They told us' will we pluck a quill
And tell it back, or paint
Our future canvas black
As tumours gobble up the times
And humour can't assuage the rhymes
That sing of poison coarsing through the lines
Of sonnets speaking of the certainty
That we are only widows to the world.