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Month: August 2009

The cure for pretty



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?

The flowers of hanged villians


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