Friday, April 30, 2010

Name Your Passing

fortress of my thrashing ,claw stammer ,gas cor
ected in my anus was that a door .g rime
sod a fork cloud and my number’s cup
I was eating I was folding I was paged inside the
sandwich fell beneath the sink .read an claw all
ways out .or splashed with slaw I glimmer in
the pork coast far across the day .I was slumber
I was shroud I was quaking like your teeth




In Time ,Almost

the laundry fist the storm hum the .iss
uance of licking off the dog calm leave the
blood on the stone .the sun will eat the rain
will eat the .waves ,corn ,empty head a
can of beans rolls under my chair my
left eye burns my right ...filled with butter
sees the smoke ,wanders off the list or form
.stunned and ticking my ,sock alone

whole the hole



an fiddle

o sore
eros o



)bun mist(


Blogger Gerry Boyd said...

Some might call this experimental, I call it poetry.

April 30, 2010 at 7:43 AM  
Blogger John M. Bennett said...

all real poetry is experimental, you have to go into it not knowing what you're going to say. and also it's experimental in the Spanish sense of the world, which includes the idea of experiencial -

May 3, 2010 at 7:23 AM  

Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home