Effulgence trundles in sour loam,
blotted out on the border of a black lake.

My country is a clock, and all I have is on this dock:
bourbon and bibulous shadows, a concupiscent gloaming.

I can no longer distinguish poetic from profane
or explain the frenzied fuschia of a noetic light

which frazzles even the faith of rain in its ability to accumulate,
managing to transform elemental intent into immaterial bread.

Blanketed by monasticism, internally the clouds bleed
like boiled beets, gibbous and relentlessly ascetic.

They go BLAM! like an fighter jet exploding in the comics.
The outline is smooth, star-shaped, an understated hyperbole.