poetry critical

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As the dying in the courtyard sing of roses,

I palp pestilence with my touchicles;
an assortment of flamboyant and nervous beasts,
their flourishes hidden in damaged shells,
          in the rigid unfurling of sugared rose petals,
I discover concave dialogue;
hands under clothing
as another funeral cortège passes by.
Coming down the road
lined with low, neatly cropped hedges
and unnaturally violet cobblestones,
          four men appear dragging a laden cart.
They look like butchers in their black bowler hats,
in their stained leather aprons. They are not butchers,
they sweat and curse in fear.  
It is a blind day
           on the T of all things;
someone is daubing red paint on the door,
    which opens onto the demesne of beasts;
                                     it is a dense moss;
binding the crumbling, underside of healthier days;
open wounds: dullness of laudanum memories;
              an invincible low note.
The beasts unpurse my lips and I exhale.
“The carnivorous cactus flowered in the night,
       with sticky black and yellow flowers”;
                                  we love again;
slowly this time, so pain does not lose its sense.

30 Oct 09

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strange but cool poem-
I'm not sure what 'touchicles' are but it's a funny word-
anyway, you've got some cool things happening in your poem
but I'm not sure I completely comprehend..
sometimes, it don't matter
if it's an entertaining read...which it was
 — JKWeb