Thursday, November 03, 2005

FEAR OF GOATS


Blight of Eyes
Skin molt with corm and bone rill choused in the plow of her forehead where I once pressed my lips bloodied with mill-weed and choke and the nettles and briar tungsten and the yellow corn
blight of eyes gone sallow with fretting and misjudgments and never once a cackle or a sharp invective (the chaff never separated from the absence of skin)

Omphale’s Whore
Ears sheeted with rags
A wailing
Neither apiary
Nor tallow
Could stop
Omphale sluing man
Into bivalve, slurry
And conch

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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