A true All--Hallows, when
Most ancient coin might buy
Damask to nape the hills:
A cloud of soprano lace-notes
Sliding across dawn's underflash,
The twice-set places more festal
Than raw souls might wish cleaved
To palate. Yet all's still provender
For the plasmodium, with its pipes
Ranked cardinalic beyond the
Tabled sacraments, stuff of
Oratorios so ornately turgid that
Tongues eschew speaking. Basque
Embraces Hungarian to loose floods
Of finnipedalian excess,
Syllables strung up by the auricles
And stretched to assonant ruin.
Back of the head lies a tang of
Ill-concealed sun, some deity's poor
Mockery of jalapeno verve. Seemly now
To draw close the fog, comfort for
Those who wish to be stricken with
Ghastly alimentations and bobbed to
The quick, where they may find the dead
As long in irony as those believing
Themselves to live.