Friday, April 04, 2008

trade account

I every walk the morning path; my soles bare
palm parch dust; my husband has failed to
protect the market; he co-bears consumed
flesh as a portion of their emblems; his heart
grows a yellow fatty substance in trying; I do
not paint my lips in grease nor put gold on my
fingers; I worship the first thing I feel; my love
is a filigreed framboid; it has no power with
him; his bodyneed burns hole through the
rondavel past hearth; our neighbours bring
twined brush in soliloquyd bunches; when he
goes to trawl graves we wake ourselves with
whispers; we creep the logicchinks but our
efforts keep passing and passing; I fend off
our elders with my hip swerves; children scrawl
elongated nipple tubes along any wall of my
water walking; we shall desist analysing who
pierced our protection; one lineage edicts we
swap live liver for amanuensis; but there is
only that which we've birthed with our mudfroth;
no organ suffices; my legacy is penance is
a small bleeding blister jewel; I hide my curse
by evening; the scrubdogs pelage our night
perimeter; I wake from cursorial dreams to
put a pinchpelt upon my amulet cleavage;
my little stone awaits in the dark prayer dark
corner altar; I write away networks of phagous
debts with my broom; my advances are a
single pale pyrite palpitation; tonight the men
go labia hunting in respect of my progress.

Wonderful dense brush here...almost an examination of consonantal clusters roughing the outer edges of the body

Xanax Pop: Postmodern Poetry by Lewis LaCook
Very, very nice
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