Poor old peter weather gale
went the long milk fence faking it
dramas of love in the belly
of a scorched piano
howls of mercy that turned
into weapons in the morning,
lots of tar tarnished ice
leading down to the weeping of engines
on the grim peak of man,
the hands of hell
with their butter of uselessness
arms hanging limp
as the world they operated
subsides like a wound.