Wednesday, June 27, 2018


These words are the bones of the
past are the way of sight:
book mirror crystal eyeglasses
clock :gut cloaca snore son los
huevos del aire y añoro el
ahora en que aparezco en que
flicker ,flame almost out is a
circular wall and a gate between
cheeks a pool fought over
in the palm of your hand blood
drips from your eyes

pinche poesía like clamps
shut the turd pinched off
- what you left – a nostril
blow – stiff mouth shut the
fuck up I should – or shape yr
lumbered exit stuffed with
socks yr shadow bleeds
white all the red you strang
led skin flaked in a bag of
onions paper sherds I walk
upon – listing the voices on
a paperclip – I named yr
swallowed tortilla - “Frank” I
think ,or “subsequent meandering”
,ah my clotted door !

the dream of the letter R
is a dream of a tool sinking
in a lake the lake are the
words you always forgot


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home