Saturday, February 5, 2011


The body flies, it spits

Black, polish and water.

Round and round secrets spoon

In the toe of low quarters

The white noise

Of bristle against leather

Heeled and soled, surged and starched

Until the mission is over

Save two scars in the wall of your scalp.

The heart yellows over

Believing that someone will

Take and become truth given.

An inventory of what could be done better

Hangs limp and ineffective.

A pulsing tongue

Waits to take control

Flicks behind teeth

Pinions and coils

To beat to hell

Soft urging, dark grabbing

Pancaked, budded palms

And desire swallowed

As asparagus gone to wood

Stringy and hard and sallow.

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