Vixen Veils

You are the bar.

Country whispers

wife whispers

waiting figures.

Hops ‘n yeast make good ransoms

Counting luck behind rainbow smoke.

Don’t trust the stopped time. Oxytocin poisons perception ‘n soon you are biting nails again.

You left the antler at the door, bleeding base ‘n flayed six horns.

You can’t remember where the right one went.

Punched gas, mad fad, oil slick, tired stick.

Fuck that mechanic mick, that incested hick.

Mayhaps he took your right when he went under your hood.

Or you lost it in the hood. But, mountains aren’t hood, only caped ‘n toothed, less fruit ‘n more root. They all craved stalagmites out of spite.

Should have been altoid-mites.

Might be, you are lost in the ‘mites.

You are the below.

Tender scream,

country dream,

needled notes:

“De-sharp-ort the F-flat-oriengers!”

Tendered screams. You wish your name was Hugh since it fit your last Ass.

No prank call.

Fifth attempt

Wittle wife

Wallowed whisper

“Come home.”

How could you find it? Backed cave, might be the ‘mites miss you.

Pinky promise, but you lost it to five finger fillet. On the right. Where did that antler go again?

Waitress wails with winks as you hang. No wonder the glass was clear.

You aspire to conspire in her tender notes:

“F-sharp-uck my A-flat-ass.”

She re-murks the clear with vermilion smudges just above your below.

She has your daughter’s eyes, mismatched ‘n laser patched. Genes in jeans, ripped and rat attacked, from the cave backs and the ‘mites. Or were they your mates? Did she steal their antlers too? What did your uncle sing before his time fled?

“A good father b-sharp-eats his d-flat-aughter.”

On her caved back she was the deflowered otter, holding hands with a silent sister.

Is that really how genesis flowed?

Car cabined fever

Black stripped beaver

Vexed vixens can’t howl, but bark notes all the same.

“E-sharp-eek! She bit off my c-flat-ock!”

You are below the bar.