Monday, June 20, 2011

white-red trouble in the high stalls

imagine that they lit fires
under the cameras the air shimmered

in the bathrooms the brushes run down
the boys run down
their teeth half-done
the flush half-flushed
in the bath the rodents stop

the cleaning woman/wife/breaking glass mid-explosion
looks at the pet-cage again
wonders if that is where she came
from then turns on the hot tap

only one spirit is loose here

the time machine stops

he is frozed to the burn
he feels the pellets fly in
but he is also immobile

only one thing is still loose

it shoves itself where it should not
it delighteth in poetry of bath-death

over again it cries this may not be enough
for me
with such wings and humour

it can take months oh why did we would you ever
countenance a baby but you are so ineffectual
so disastrous all that you say
your lovemaking is scary as a recent fire
that wet smell of smoke
it is as though you were gone several seconds
earlier into the river

the thing in the corner of the room
the corner of the room
the confluence of angles

oh violet I need look forget shuffle
blood is in and on her flows and browse
enter them dead never believed
never getting out


you are making that music again
at least don't lie about it


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