These poems were originally published on Twitter @TalbotStrange. Consider following me there if you enjoy the content and the format.
The dozing king with courtiers
dashing dribbles from his pink lips
snorts violently, an eruption
of mucous crusts gauzy epauletted
vestments as the sing song daily parade
of penitents slips shod
through blazing jurisprudence.
We are wounded by the tears in the sky
the golden streaks of white light escaping
the clouded scaffolds of our domed embrace.
We in the shadows cannot suffer too much illumination.
A constellation unknown
in southern skies the crane Grus,
fronted like I knew it.
Oh I knew the old English word,
lost in a frankifying middle age,
but this is what the squirrel god
Google wants me to know.