Dexter likes to contemplate the vast courageous notings of the watchman, with his gentle stub-ble-scratchy brows, the scent of sweaty lynx seeps through the circles of imperial liquor. Dinner, dinner-soupy spoons and lumps of generic custard stuck to crust in every side and surface there's the waiter boy! What ho, his master speaks in cheqeured tongues, with tongs of steel i hand he goes, towards the bathroom door. Buttereyed staff and droopyheaded ladels, hand in hand they go dripping filthy curds. Softest jelly/jello whichever serves best who cares. To be Frank, or somebody similar, a forked tongue slithers through each room- searching for a victim. This other child-in whitish pink. Into its arm the viper sinks its lazy teeth, to hug the pin-sized veins with ivory love. Fie fie, it cries, the child dies of poison. Which country? Not England. For surely, this isn't the proper thing? So Dexter closes his hotel due to lack of staff.
i only read it once and i can honestly say i don't really understand it after one reading but there is something that comes through in this that made me excited like when you read something that catches you offguard that you end up liking and as it turns out i'm slightly in love with you. the end.
Ok, well first off, great poem. Quite a bright vivid imagination with depths of nuances in this one dear. I loved the 1st 3rd and 4th stanzas.
