ashgabat 17, 18

17.
“Quisling clinic,” sly hooch fluctuate Milton
crumbs of entropy as folds the pantry
around the scaffold never yet a gantry
asleep in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hilton.
Gateshelf, passport to Orcus for all & fucking sundry,

yield in good time (soon) to the lure of the ruby
followed by ilka dolt & ev’ry booby,
bloodstained ruse among reasons tart or thundery.
Quislings remembered now if sunward notable,
toasted with draft of elegy imperfectly potable.

Crampton text.

18.
Rancid copperhead gun, a pile of crawfish
to hunker down, the path by the cemetery rigid
liquid slowthrough, Google Maps, but frigid
as being there was not, nor then standoffish
the elements in the hour’s cassowary cincture.

Slovio Eid I tell, two-timed indignant
when fate that sent such gift sent bill malignant...
SuSmo’ jaqtaH... House of floatpig tincture,
as sprinkler-drip unveils a stolen picture
occult as infix in a crisp jboku’ile stricture.