Wednesday, July 30, 2014

poem: Pleasure Food



chawing on the eight foot stoneroni
sausage costing nineteen thousand piasters
diners appeal to the law
let us eat the forbidden home-made melancholia fixer
with florid pickle 




Idle  Talk

got sinuses like the Carlsbad Caverns
coccyx crazing  like the San Andreas Fault
sweet-spot in the dome one barren old declivity
cracks suturing till the reaper comes
my voice walks through damp tissue 

up the seventeen flights of concrete steps with rusting rebar
tone bangs into a bend behind a remarkably big nose
words find their way out 
a mile of muslin wrappings
upon finding an ear 
no juice
they bubble up  in soda pop colors and croak
without a funeral

an oracular miasma blends with military work togs
no record

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