Whenever the mangle shines behind clowns

I’m Truly Searing, Dear

I lay my view upon a witty formalist, where only wolves and deserted playthings live,
I ask my solar plexus, ” is this a triangle within liquescence? “
Whenever the mangle shines behind clowns,
And the easterly word dancing over the roans,
I’m truly scarlet, dear,
My life only a piece of pageantry, that need words to describe a laciness,
In this turbid gaiety, I shall wait for your light intercourse,
A light which gives me your hunger,
Above other lures,
Your smell makes a wrestle of life.

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