snapshots of white trash blot those lips, beat
a footboard naked, naked female
plays peek-a-boo, you ain’t got we ain’t got
smitten eyes sneak off the lower corner
se promener. Ohhh, do we dare? That cold-
erect mold of steel feels strange but good in
my hand, the barrel vomits wheels swerve
a grassy knoll, we stole paper that waitress
and sharecroppers can’t serve or spray, faye dunna
beatty, fuck a foreclosure we are contained
by berets and bee-bops, the wind is not
dense enough to dam our flee. Moss grows from
our scalp, a humid night snores. What is it
dreaming? Brown-paper bags of cash, a sweaty
cinema, gold chimes strangle her neck, she
likes the way white trash blows the wind, rustles
her body, wrinkles her panties. Why can’t
she kiss the gun? At least the blue eyes aren’t
impotent. The neck of the woods has blanched-
Baptist caught in its throat, constipated
by a prude ass? Hunky-tunk poesy
the southern twang of badges, hillbilly
periodical absorbs blame. A jay stalin
floats tied to wrists, they don’t exterminate,
belly-up chassis from sharecroppin grit,
spit rains down her face. He does not blot air
lipstick put on by a hollow-steel phallus.
Eugene wilder than ever, a boy tumbles
down a hill of sand blue eyes are impotent
to momma, barrow of distant news,
a crouched-pink robe on linen, southern-Baptist
chicken draws ghetto gnats, they taxi. Headlights
squirt smoke. Bird’s eye view of blood on temples
headlights squirt smoke makes eyes bland, blood invades
a stark-white turban. When did trees learn to
shoot? Bled and feathered by hay, tie-dyed by
gunpowder, blond tendrils red, bareback favor
blooms scattered eyes behind glass, stains will not
wash away over-alls sling arms, moss wants to
sprout out of paper, the jay stalin picks
the moss, leaves the inverted voice behind
poesy, incessant ink predicts
infinite pause of breaths. Hands shake, the lense
is epileptic sighs after orgasm,
spasms are still, muddy take out carton
peaks through curtain, the pear juice stains our chins
startled by a flock, bushes shock our bodies
torso rolls the hay ,mane sweeps the soil
gratuitous bullets, blood and soot our
matrimonies honeymoon is…
Monday, December 8, 2008
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