Bat Named Nabob drinks a Magic Elixir

Cruelty is novelty in dresses,
Love sweeps through gaseous fields,
With raindrops that measure golden wheat,
In bushels of light cold syrup,
Bushels that fall from haylofts in the Midwest of your reverie,
Lying with me.
Dreams not yours but the cruel ones,
Alighting of sparrows on dead carcasses of deer, bloated in prone heated faux-pregnancy,
In the birthplace of novels,
The place where Haiku,
Goes to dissipate.
The unsaid released in acrid flame.
What I cannot tell you, my love,
You cannot tell me,
The abandonment,
Of falling from clouds,
While sitting among them.
Experiencing the detritus of a lobster’s Christmas feast,
Before it screams,
You eat its offal and young.
How to explain that love in Galapagos,
Is real love,
That love of the coliseum,
Is real love,
That without the thumping,
Hot geyser baths result.
The inexplicable wanton abandoned lizard.
A mother doesn’t want to hear the crying baby Jesus. 
It isn’t her baby. I know lizard love that she will kill to nourish her young. 
I know this. Hot innards burst in thumping pinks and purples and reds.
For 400 bips and waiting and risking, you have my attention.
version 3/12/2014

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