after an absence...poetry

i am now embarked on an eighteenth century project: opium, philosophy, poetry-suicide maybe even landscape paintings and apocryphal tales of worthy peasant folk; who's nobility of spirit puts to shame the decadent excesses of our privileged class with our cloying hypocritical morality. milkmaids with their round hips pock marked visages and the sweet sour sent of rancid butter cascading from the sacred ceiling of that cotton curtained twin pillared temple at who's green spattered feet a sickly stenched whimpering lord may receive such a salty yellow baptism that may burn his eyes and for a fleeting moment wash away his lordly talc and charcoal blemish leaving him once more weeping and worthless among the ticks and manure.