pencil message

weaving in, or weaving out of, the threaded tongue, missing and kissing each other's eyes, as if moving to the last village of twelfth - century indian.

the boys beset and throwned upon metal tinny trash receptacles, caste thine eyes upon dusty and oiled oceans, filled with toothy beasts.

there was a pencil message, magnified in the bottle of speech. you threw it out, to play alone on the sharpened beach, while we let the waves nab us and possess our histories.

the last bone

All those bubbles that feed to you from my veins, each statically charged to inflict it's torture. Each carries your corpse out of the eight foot drop, but you still smell that which the microbes smell, and hurry for the feast.

It is not so easy to turn a head when the truth explodes nuclear-white in all directions. Here we stand, waiting for the vaporization, picking our teeth, with the last bone. 

the beast speaker

the beast speaker steps up to the podium to deliver a helping of wavering gravy, thick and starchy, his lineage feast, pardoned for being with penis.

I stick my nose in the earth and suck in the particles of our pasts, dustings of our memories through osmosis. you where there and here and back again, while we were mud and dry coverings speaking like friends in a dirty coffee shop.

was it Jesus or Jésus, standing in the cellar door? punching at the angels with a wrecking ball? buying sacks of forbidden fruit and passing it, or, passing as, unwelcome advice?

and you, a traveling bearer, with a basket full, swinging with abandon, my holistic cup runneth over, swiping my lips of rotted wine drops for your memoriam.