#corey wakeling

[staleobjectsdepress]

Exostale 3 Changning

[pluswon]

Valet

What with the castle back, meritocracy eases. Still,

my cousin wants to shoot sawn-off. Dead all doubt.

There are ruins in his future, automotive hacks disabused

and by my delicate intolerance for hap maw

and carcanet bolus to Surrey Hills retreat,

the nous fades. Gauchely, I pray. No Roswell let loose,

if only a brittler windscreen. Windbreak my promise

to our children, but not consummate with full-blown collapse

to Bohemian glass, stripes to the eldest aristocracy

to the long-limbed swaddle, because of

the enormity of the beast. London crank hack duty when

the big car snivels,

the Martian observes a still night in the thronging lobbies

hence Paris dehisces from Collins Street a hundred valets.

  The serialised novel raps at my door to be patient as my anus

is eaten by flies, can you believe it, me hardly,

the servant tricks to meet the criteria of the nuclear family.

I anticipate great redress on the verdant hillocks

of the policed greens partitioned by conspiracy of

the bastard child, lovemaking ennui of the recidivist domestic.

  Gaul or Groan?

Hobbling rabbits at the crest, rubbed gonads and gonagra.

  My wedding in this lineage is a nasty joke,

but at least I’m red hot, bride a known torrent

to glacial calm in a liquefaction helmet-leaded,

we are Cubans. Your pill rubbed into my sore starts a party

somewhere cooler.

Youth’s infirmity in Russell Street sleet

sources Lear’s cankered blood toward a more graceful nonsense,

jape hap to the iron stool of this wedding to borrow money.