Angry at lattices, brass toenails, futility
I pray for black-knotted solemnity.
It’s all so inevitable.
He forces me down, claws in my back
aluminum bones and a dusty snake carcass.
O Holy Incommunicado
I wrap your knick-knacks in pink
drape the grass rabbit
in incongruous jewelry.
May your old night a luminous bomb
be more kind.
This Starts with Girls Fighting Birds in the Foyer
I guess it’s my strange way
to let go the gristle
bloat-smashed rubber roadkill
watch the dead opera blunt love on the cusp
through a bay window
where fucking means nothing but time.
I guess there’ll be glass
once rain washes horseshit
and tusked pigs throw up on the pickups.
Day three, where are we? Hooves and black pudding
drape the small body
I try to taint.
This log house’s lawn
has its own genre.
Our trauma stretches
across every ghost.
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