Saturday, April 28, 2012

Hinged the Hearse Pot

Her husband is a cannonball
disguised with the pigeon
tealeaves he brought. It
unfold blank a troubadour
epidemic. We take off our
shoes, whereupon her man
scuttles to a window shade
with his Yorkshire prayer
booking via back hand.
The whole place lifted as
with heavy smoke and dark
shapes for warm faces to
make lump noises. Visitors
to turn pale pink, gruesome
little hedgehogs. To be bust
open at tobacco pouch seam.
They are chained to matches.
But in my face a light to look
of foreseen circumstances.
Her husband have a large stew
pot. She has in pieces of clingy
silk laid out on her backyard.

Lemon Lime Pickle

Better will ensue and of open spaces live through
   to estranged thresholds who by bunches uttered.

Clear they stand among such dresses as the needle
   work kept starved. Are trembling aesthete dances.

Could fashion a pillow pinch of rags. For what that
   the bunting might divine about such tender labors.

Among the solid things like beauty by the moment
   of hands closed on astonish thief in tiny fragments

of hectic morning. The percolator is purring. To be
   slung too, if stretched center between the brains

in disarray. Slough presumptions. Ambitious to be
   she, a mere delightful being of such complexity.

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 *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

Under Hoshizaki

You’re there now, up against the subway grating
and the music breaks vulgar for which you were
turned happy. Little dumpling twinings. Slider
you’re a tight reach box on the sidewalk concrete.
You were not smoking a moment ago. To have with
imps you danced hacky sack lush midnight footbag,
become were the moon travel grunts glorious along
with assemblage prostheses, only after which sexy
moments established their evident hold. You are one
pleasurable curiosity, no dancer back but you come
shuddering a perfect chandelier cabriole foot carve.
Terribly the same things amusing, more preferable
now to make at just cardboard, not for dog sausage.
Sluice your little fingerling. I see cobwebs collecting.
It is warm down that face under ramps that blow
under Hoshizaki. We’re of both mythical reminding.
And what up did your trunk but with manage see.