The Buttered Fly

Concentricity spills titles on the already oil-slacked 
sidewalk, loose as a pre-con-Cretan-Minoan-never-
severed-hand; semi-cauliflower colonoscopy, ordered
into legend, the part of that map terrifying to the territory,
increasable to the point of comma-separated-devaluation,
where the fire dog laps the waters of the market and the
rope dancer develops an instantaneous understanding of
the gently tenderized buttons on the machine that whirs
the civilization into the least prefixual mart, a store of salamanders,
de-newted by their very scales, noted in the music at just over
four minutes and thirty three seconds, the second the decent
of man became passive and used that anachronistic word to 
describe the patriarchal past, where the darlings Darwon the 
war, as Pyrrhic as Protestant, where the monarch looks in the
mirror and can only see the buttered fly, drunk, happy, and as
unrepresentative of the land as a minister of nonsense, resented
by the very popes that landed on the destinies with beaches and
the moldy manifests, unfolded as a many generational trimline,
where the ship of fate stays deep in the forest, unguarded, like
a city that cannot called a city by its streetlessness.