trashing the bishop's escape

this ancestral escape with hedgerows got up at angles,
crying as shyly as they want and as fair as edgewise
in tears and tears of inarticulate defections:

the droll season, from the shyest hedgerow,
damned to the thoughtless mangrove island with fright
groaning sleeves dredged sweetly with absurd propping,
like ruminations pilfered
and shone to the regressively frothing torches
of the salty mangrove roots.

the dutiful peaceful slack grin posture
where prenatally a wish pumps
like a mild tower in an ornamental spray of spray:

this buffoon by Bacchus for a sophistry for a dope.

it does look like seven
but an elemental gray horse meanders there
in a black and white empirical mess.

he gives as he swerves, thinks he bows better.

he thinks that hell rages beneath his iron feet
and that this is why the mellow patter is so stormy
and that seven is not like this.

seven is not like sighing or swimming
but has something to do with frankness
and a prolonged flare of bloody nostrils.

when it gets stark, he will remember something:
it will be wrongly worded to cover his digits.