Forgotten Heights

In the wind shears of my mind holding on to the quill  
with the gall of the screaming louse and the flea.  
With the quill of my tongue getting under your  
skin, caressing flesh. Naked beneath the leather  
collar reaping the godpins on your breasts.  
As the shadow of quiet composes. I reach
the unattainable of forgotten heights. With a
seance from the grave’s orgy. The calliope  
whistles the chords of your autopsy in a daisy train  
falling off the rails. With the quill of my tongue  
getting under your skin.