Monthly Archives: March 2014

 

He walks like an old gunslinger, slightly bow legged

An itchy finger rubs at the spot of memory

Where the whale or ivory handle used to sit.

A wrist hovers, pushes a hesitant hand out –

Once so quick to adjust now hanging a little.

There’s a nervous nod in the greeting

Going through the stalls, down the old exhibits;

The free quarter a pint daily of socialist milk

Gone sour on the people’s bank stall.

The airline bag of state school texts,

Left out in moulding day, gives off the unsettling smell

Of first day there leather.

The ghost train is still worth a giggle;

The old commonwealth skeleton dangles,

Drags over furrowed brow, scrapes over the newer skull to reveal

There’s hair rising on the nape of uncertainty

Where the rails slip direction.

 

Grab your pony and laugh.

Grab your pony and laugh.

 

Makeshift shelter
No latrines for girls
No protection for girls
Makeshift night

 

Got to get us some of that baby pride. If it means

a manger war so be it. As for cupidity we’re habitués

of coitus relief. As we have not in any sense made a roast

or a fry of a lamb we need not skulk in a shelter. Though

espied we won’t be trumped by purlieu. Lief as borrow

a box from a dead man as a pail from a poet. Such

a wonderful dumb. It’s perfect. If only we knew

who is the true person to help.

Dick Cheney

backs my girl. A grocer by profession,

show me what’s adjacent. That whatever shall be spoken

shall be fetched up from God’s store. Masters Peter

& Paul a pox on your paramours. Let stark naked Nature

be as bliss on a rubber mat. As hiss

as hike a skirt, I’ve proofed it all: wet beds

& teeth to pull.

Old baggage

of the languishing sort is no foundation laid

for some new & unworthy endeavour. Let

girl lords cut to the chase. Let them roll

what’s best for those jerk & soda masturbators

who’d have us drink at the fountain of lark. In church

that I may stand a self integral I’m prepared

to come out spanking.

Grab your pony

& laugh. For sure Beauty gonna skin us. Boggie or salsa,

which at your funeral? If you’re swift in news

you can leave the Michigan mess. Yes, Yasmine

does hum (it’s what she does). When she got

that big star fright you can use her

for your wren. Don’t eat that, it come up

from underground.

Next stop: Aunt Jemima’s. In

cahoots with the Tonton Macoutes, she owes her life

to Grimmelshausen, his minions under glass, a ghastly

summer place it’s open to escrow; it’s a theatre

for deep web drama queens. How’d I wind up

with coffee in my socks? A papal blessing

what I need. If you’re telling me crazy

tell it so Mommy can hear.

Which larnin’

we got here? A kind that help us

fetch & snark? I doubt it. I doubt that handing out

molasses will see us clear to Chippendale. But not

to worry. After I shoe myself I’ll shoe you, cutthroat

soirées tiptoed to – a mezz solution but good enough

for a multiple Z shuttle-snatch, Q riders

home & hose.

I don’t suppose

that those hackings in Haiti have

an application here? – dicker over diminishing

returns, the nesting shortfall in Nemesis. Surely not

a serious question, these en pris encryptionists

as clueless as Gaza, they’d have Papa Doc look-

alikes outsourcing culls to Macoutes

untrumped by purlieu.

 

 

 

the insane mouth you kiss at night

the insane mouth you kiss at night

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