The Clerics

"Hold on, gun!"
Gold beholden to betrothed
Rust behind the bumper
Her cadillac stood, like
A rat on its hind legs
Threw-out a suggestion
Of burps in blackness,
Swill withstanding,
A pond in the back of Uncle's throat.
'Oh, he's such a jokester', they told her.
And molded out from algae to monster.

He never liked Stanley, fiancee
Who'd not yell at gnats sooner-
Later fleeing them.
Too much, they said, to take for wed.
So's too, upon whence lost: his head.
She'd had suspicion, and longer still
The lager-swill brought to light the life
Within Dear Uncle's head...

Quotidian bread, morsels bled
from out the man, who's
Sullied thoughts (-the rube-)
danced about the nude air,
Pullied systems of bullied kids,
Who poked and prodded with
Chortling, ribbing thoughts?
These, who dared to hate for sake
Of name and hair.
Goldberg and curls.
So as so, snarls unfurled, heat-straightened
by the hell to which their captors once compelled.
And by those catchers, falcon's mitts
to claw-out gifts of blooded mists to wear on wrists.
Misfits of their own design.
His eyes gleamed to remember how the
Stovetop burned Sandusky's lips.
His own false-supine was limply,
barely laden across the bed of
His own lips loosely striking his nips
And sliding in shifts, and then:

It was the seventeenth when She
took her rifle
from 'neath the bed.
It was the twelfth when She
heard confirmation
from the priest's pulpit.
It was ten paces past the entry gate, when She
saw him lying 
through the hole from his teeth
into his bed.
Couldn't have been less than six shots heard,
at least according to the widow's word.
Couldn't have been more than 
before, the fiancee's blood would've
overflowed from the souls of the boots
Dear Uncle wore.
Couldn't see past the red,
for sake of future lights, the blue and white.
Her third gear jammed-out when the
sows whirled all around.

The golden two-door,
steering into the balsam fir.
The one thing left, She
couldn't hear over Uncle's 
screams inside her ears.
The swallow showed its hands
in the rearview mirror,
ace's high above the fear,
that drove-in pictures of his lips to hers.
The corpses formed the welcome party,
for the lack of a path of some
redeeming, ill-begotten ills
festered from condors into kids,
and tables into shins, and
"No more screaming.
Please... just for the evening?"