We can struggle
With white spider stars coming down
And night blowing black from the ground
the carrion-crow-feed never need to speak
about the unfortunate invisibility they find in the deep
womb of afterbirth.
coital coiled mortals of a granary mill
grinding the spiritus for manna
Head-heavy moles burrowing through the aparteide
numbly clumsying the ether subsorrow
of unconscious sandwich spread
and E, E, J, C, K. The powdered faces wasting
living on a dying breed,
these flawlessly bruised holes in the latex of
Here's a head hung low by the potstill streetlamp
a pigeon fork
resting baled to the brow.
And all the greedy
whisky drinkers and their tinned whisky dinners
sinning on in black-marred knuckles
and coring bones with cheap excision tools
more daring Rimbaud revisions than a satanist would
Religiosity and relegated managerial
affairs of those two feeble shanties paper
all the crinkling walls in the customs' gaping bureau.
Pat the bunny. and think Pascal and Bastille,
think turtle and turrepine, but always.
Pat the bunny.