Thousand Dredgers
The face that launched a thousand dredgers loomed above,
With tin-foil hair and bucket rusting smile,
Proclaimed with tongue of carbon paper endless love,
Fingers crossed behind her back awhile.
And as she rocked and rolled, let loose a frantic moan,
Caught in her funnel till it softly screamed,
I felt my charnel soul slip to a twilight zone,
Something from a nightmare I had dreamed.
The sump of engine oil was seeping from below,
Slithered as an epileptic snake,
Lisping as she shuddered with electric glow,
Naked Nordic flesh began to quake.
The face that launched a thousand dredgers combing hair
Vampiric, no reflection in the glass,
Visceral lipstick rose up like a signal flare,
With fire engine red slapped on her ass.
All that I have done equates a target range
China ducks emblazoned with regret,
And even though in living death I find it strange,
I shoot her down but sort of love her yet.
All that I appear is something cold and flat,
A semblance of a being that would dwell
Within a fleshy slum, a ghetto autocrat,
A sitting tenant in this empty shell
The face that launched a thousand dredgers getting dressed,
The blood of Ripley running in her veins,
All that she inspires within is un-confessed,
And secrets kept inter with my remains.
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