Month: August 2009

 

Overheard during the workweek, in hell’s suburb:

The local act, part 1

Act as if sleepwalking, in a trailer court, the bowl and bowel, and these thoughts float up too:

Blame me for that too you sanctimonious cocksucker, you’ll see that my feet are the last thing you will see

I said I’ll bake you a pie already -dickhead- just don’t forget my goddam cigarettes.

And few closing endearments to light the dusk:

(the local act, part 2)

When the money gets back, I’ll speak again

You sure discovered the cure for pretty- just wish it didn’t have to smell so fucking bad.

And: If all the blinds remain closed, can you almost forget where you are?

With my sweetheart, under the gallows tree
Just them and me
and some dried shoes and a union suit woven into the soil
A posterior root that fans at the ground a rosette of ovate, wrinkled, crisp,
leaves like a stack of small bills on a gaming table,
somewhere between
paid out and settled up,
and a green white flower bearing succulent and lovely berries
poisonous to all
except soul-free women, disloyal curs and
spirits that welter in tall-necked bottles
like portrait collars
from which flow the stuporous syrups of sleep