Foreskin House
(on Loss Street)

1818

Perimeter cheese farms go into a trough at this time of year.
Fall inactive. To counteract-act that shortage we get the tickled
slack direct. You couldn't wish for sheetage from a kinder guy.

Under a decent microscope, I just happen to have one handy, his
crinkly lips look all too much like a suck in recoil, pursed as
the parading lemon-sluiced face on the Reverend Ian Paisley.

A place we almost all know. At night, sometimes, I get drum-hot
and go to sleep out on the rim, the furthest fold. A balcony of
baroque carvings and veined weeks. The cul de sacs of the dead. In

an open film can whizz ballbearings. Child makes it faster, then
faster. Winks form big brother on the sill of the oval orifice
contract. Unfurling a complex, but for some wasteful, geometry.

Finger scent. "You smell great!", even from a distance - of the
morning after. 'On Offer'. The Slippage of The Spawn Beyond The Banjo
String. A splash of urine mediating tongue. Then bannisters, vertical

seizure, scum of the wake. Easy pickings. Rain, fluffing a cool lozenge
from that tightening Dome. Sur-planting a garden. Brash, rouge-masked.
Breaking these expectant files at random. Stone skims constellation.