Gorse

Woollen screen before my eyes
I let my lust lead me blind across depleted countryside up to a murder of blackened pines
Choking ‘round an orange lake, the odyssey no longer spoken
Shallow roots, erotic sonder, normalcies hath lost beyonder

You got hands, stretch ‘em out
Get the ground, fix it now
You got hands, let’s take the crown
Get the groaning ground and grip it down

Cut across the grain into a cloudburst day
Silty sweeter salty water drowns a basking bridge above the gutted slaughter
The coils of spaghetti are eternally poised in porcelain
Our final work of alchemy is our last word in comfort