Sunday, April 15, 2012

You all the time. My mind is on you.

wash the spine out of your dirty sex 
mind like a rusty stunt
bent toward winter on a hunch
cross-mapped coordinates clap
like the wings of tin moths
nighttime porch lost, a raft adrift
cutbacks make cutthroats of us all
cleaning what's left 
from the bristles of its craw
one hand a crook, the other all flaws
irregulars gone wild 
in the wind of another misadventure
creeping toupees scrabble down ways disappearing
reappearing in the mouths of the mewling young
outgunned and downcast , but not undone

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous7:12 AM

    i get a kind of medieval apocalyptic feeling from this: hunch, craw but then outgunned & toupee make for now.. love it