They carry themselves.How, I don’t pretend to know. Their shins, skinned.Their nails, splintered.Their lips, cracked. (Did medical staffReport these changes?)On. Holding no voiceBeyond reedy breathing:“We are human.We are human.We are.” (Another time,We would be neighbours.)On. That wretch —If he could stop,He’d find lung forTreatise, sermon, song,Civics or bawdy humour. (Fairy tales affectSuch transformations.)On. Those bones …
What are you doing hitting marks,reciting lines, after cremation?Grandfather —you surprise me,appearing like this. Preceding scenes planted youdeep beneath roses,arrested while pruning —soily handprint on vest.The episode passedwithout laugh trackor revival — Justreaction,silence,credits, death.Yet, here you are. Here you are — corrected in fiction:cast as a salaryman, set and shot in Japan. How irresponsible,I think, …
Amber! Amber!It is all amber. The wood of the barVarnished with sunlight:Amber! The porter rolling in my Glass like syrup:Amber! The eyes all around,Blue, green and brown:Amber! Call them amber!They’re warm enough,For we are wracked — Caught in hiccupped laughter,Creased. Seeping to our edges, Happiness has drenched us.May it be forever Thus.
Angel raises my gaze.Angel nudges my chinSkywards to be struck. Angel caresses my cornea, Lit with pale fire thatMakes me splendid. “Hold the book so I can see,So wisdom billows In my hollows.” “Let me sign andSneak the ending, Apparition.” “Holy smokes!”
Everything showed. Breath pocked the air.Streets curled like matchsticksCaught in their own flare.And the dog scuffed stone with me — noticing,In the transparent avenue, a crack:A wall of coats and handbagsTrailing a casket, shiningly black.And I leant to mourn, to decry the day,To quieten my face and my stride.But I held life by the leash …
All SaturdayI beamed For the happiness In my breast HappinessLike a dagger The sheath that wasMy chest Happiness so at homeIt became me Ripped ragged as if readyTo rend Bursting and flaringWith radiance A smile beyond lipsWithout end
Within ten miles,The thirst-crazed grassRoiled with hoppers,Which ricochetedAgainst my glossy tracks.Those trainers — black —Adhered to lines,Packed dirt on leathered flats.The sun was lecherousAnd high:Scouring bogs,Souring marshes,Polishing salt to pinprick spackle.O, the tortured snows of August.O, the madness of my march.
Toeing rusted tins, I know.Draining slow sirens, I know.Counting carrion crows, I know.I know. I know. There is treasure where I go. Green woodpeckers, last month.This month, foxes testing paws. Oblivious, they didn’t noticeUntil my hand closed.
Like a vaulter crying for the mat.Recursively yawning on screens,Caught in the broadcast thatThose same surfaces were showing. Drill, drill, drill. Buffers, sand, sack. All that Footage of athletes curling,Belly-to-butt-tuck rolling.Live-streamed: no winding back.We tend towards collapse. Hit the buffers.Hit the sand.Hit the sack.
im tired of fighting vampiresthey put bitemarks on my heartnd i sleep with one eye openbut cant get my dreams to start it sucks staring at shadowswolves lurk nd lunge at metheir fur clogs up the chambersof my lungs like a disease zombies i flinch and flee fromi outpace them they pursueso many goddamn problemsbut …
