Tuesday, May 15, 2012

DIGGING UP A PUPPY IN THE BACKYARD


Finding a skull passionate about tantra.
Opening a can of brainless doorknobs.
Their screams' shredding. An
earache running across the room.
Amid their general interpersonal panic,
their long, annoying gums.

Between winching oxygen, my chest pauses.
A burst reptile, rife with ducts.
My chest shrieking sexy, something
running up and down inside, following
a pattern, something inside's attraction
to the streaks on the walls inside.

My own brain of sentient biohazard
shiny fecal crepe. Its higher regions
responsible for weaving, emotional, hybrid
puke.

My body's encounter, daily,
with a suit. Which suit my body's skin
finds slimy, but edible. My body likes
the suit, but shouts getting in and out
of it. As though choking in a tourniquet.
Shouting that it's unsafe to eat
the slimy suit.

In the backyard, my forehead
dragging pink along. Searching
for something buried. Clothes.

A whale beached on its
laundry, on the brink of complete
nudity. Surfing the earth's
nice-smelling riffles. But very
exhaustion-prone, always.

The backyard hangs from a hook.
My probing handstand. Glazing
in one of the concrete's piercings'
aggressive emission of a haunting.
The backyard's decadence's squirts.
A zombified puppy, scraping. We
meet, this fragile manifestation of knit bones
and I.

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