They ran under the tongues of the throne.
A quick cackle reverb hiss. Then silence.
They traced down guttural galleries,
A track of step and ladder cut ups found.
They mount; surround to push and stretch the edges,
and blow to inflate lampshade flesh
all bejewelled with another quick cackle hiss,
She rests iodine stained emerald skin.
They flex and tense to keep her asleep
to breach her bounty with a sliced kiss,
her crowned belch felt like kick starts.
They pinned, framed and hung her high
a butterfly posted on public display
set on cold tablet with the popping spores of truffles.
They stare as stools in a sideshow coven
as if raptured by the slow dry breeze.
When they throw up and wake they govern
with their sad common kicks in the root
of her chapel wound that lay on the slab
just like the truth wed decided.
Panic! Art Gallery