Features swallowed by the elusive width of
the rapid conversational finger
He was a guitar and asked my father
—straw hat a hole, a dangerous yellow hole
a mesh
between his inquire—
if he would like him to play something romantic
for the two ladies
but we were not ladies but pregnancy tests,
decked in sweet pinwheels to catch
the salt.
A dollar he said a dollar I echo inside
boundaries no more than of
him: burned a color behind my eyes.
He was brown, a ruddy hue that deepened by the moment
or maybe that was the six strings
I could not tell them apart.
He gave up or down
depending on your assumed position
A ghostly referendum, we are voting on
more
and the distant pulse-beat of their crucifixions reach
not to us, for we
are Bigger this time.
retching skyward
courtesies skewered lateral to our increased girth:
tired melancholy
tokens of our appreciation, they are
fixed upon our foreheads in softly lilting rows, arranged so
for greater control, and
impulse, well it
it drives.
Out of this side, we'll find a permanence
on sunrise.
The votes unanimously ring
yes, we are
yes
and kill the supple virgin who knows
more.
Much more mineral against the window today.
The metallic clink spins soft,
volume yellow and
nostalgic
drips like honeyed circles across the front porch.
Plastic ballerina,
whirl one leg high
chips the breath wide and vulgar.
Music box: delicious-dim, where
particles alight and are swollen,
dust roll under clear.
Limp mutterings of Last Year, words
like never and
forever and
used too thin.
wonder where the rest are.
Not peeling, like most people think--only
shriveled, only
smaller than the rancid click of
tongue, of boulder, her fingers spread into
pockets,
filled with the faint trickle of gut and other
body parts. She keeps them
well preserved, the pulse of fluid rolling
inwards, towards the hollow
and the town
where the rest of her hair falls.
Tiny strands of chromosome
ragged, haggard edges of brown, they
sprout like murderers from her scalp to run so
intricately down
back to her pocket
where the village children cling and her nose bleeds from the
continuous plummeting of their tiny fists.
Sometimes
For brief, flitting moments, the needles implore the
Impetuous lull of your lip: plump or not
Wither inwards, they commanded, waving
German
Like pitchforks
The cultivation of crops under the clink of
Something godly, only sinful,
Gnawing fluorescent on the sweet tails
Unraveling
At the edges: said they.
Sinew rumbles delicately at the edges,
Gently breaks apart under the strategic placing
Of condiments, and the foreign stench
(flavorful nonetheless)
Is all but reeling infinity.
There are small infinities
of rust
in your cold coils, your
small slits
There are
imploring gentlemen at the
door,
with their teeth
like milk, like dim
udders
A thick chorus of
bleeding thighs
and the
perfect suicides, sky
wheeling
Opposite up
Immediate warm ringlets began to form under the
Wrinkled flaps
blibbering down the triple-chin—the
nuanced grotesque of his adam's apple.
He pleasures himself
With the leg of his chair, and
(I don't get wet.)
All because the stock market had crashed,
And the wife outside
…round, heavy…
Can't seem to find the right shade of
apple pie.
Two apples:
Small slits in the living room with their
Cigarettes posed to fall right into the
festering mouths of daemons and sluts below.
Breath comes shallow,
dum da da doo
as the crowd's sickening chant grows
higher.
The whine of argument climbs on their stems,
hangs there, like a protrusion of concrete.
Engaged in movement, seeds twisting
sharp bends--
--those oh-so-tender bends.
Until finally
one rolls off the counter.
Warm solidity
on the asphalt, its
determined stitches gnawing on his
yellow
It is a shrill bombardment of
pigeon shit
as the swing of suitcases shuffle by
A wash of prostitution
on his beard
(between the oatmeal and the duck)
the rounded vocabulary of his
close encounters:
The Bookstore God and
networks of small scarecrows
He sips the grunge with his insides
curling in
and I hope
tomorrow is dirty
There are small infinities
of rust
in your cold coils, your
small slits
There are
imploring gentlemen at the
door,
with their teeth
like milk, like dim
udders
A thick chorus of
bleeding thighs
and the
perfect suicides, sky
wheeling
Opposite up
For brief, flitting moments, the needles implore the
Impetuous lull of your lip: plump or not
Wither inwards, they commanded, waving
German
Like pitchforks
The cultivation of crops under the clink of
Something godly, only sinful,
Gnawing fluorescent on the sweet tails
Unraveling
At the edges: said they.
Sinew rumbles delicately at the edges,
Gently breaks apart under the strategic placing
Of condiments, and the foreign stench
(flavorful nonetheless)
Is all but reeling infinity.
Not peeling, like most people think--only
shriveled, only
smaller than the rancid click of
tongue, of boulder, her fingers spread into
pockets,
filled with the faint trickle of gut and other
body parts. She keeps them
well preserved, the pulse of fluid rolling
inwards, towards the hollow
and the town
where the rest of her hair falls.
Tiny strands of chromosome
ragged, haggard edges of brown, they
sprout like murderers from her scalp to run so
intricately down
back to her pocket
where the village children cling and her nose bleeds from the
continuous plummeting of their tiny fists.
Sometimes
Much more mineral against the window today.
The metallic clink spins soft,
volume yellow and
nostalgic
drips like honeyed circles across the front porch.
Plastic ballerina,
whirl one leg high
chips the breath wide and vulgar.
Music box: delicious-dim, where
particles alight and are swollen,
dust roll under clear.
Limp mutterings of Last Year, words
like never and
forever and
used too thin.
wonder where the rest are.