Thursday, September 24, 2009



The drain is a circle of eyes blinking back
the remnants of my shame. They investigate
so enormously as we dredge facile fact-bombs.
I am pierced in rows by a scientific fetish
and they labor in the Chrysanthemum-bulge
I cornered with the dogs to show you
I meant the best for your toad appendages.

Samples of decay threaded with appendages
like fingers and off-road tread leading back
to nightly deranges, how a house-fire bulges
with gowns of sound clawing to investigate
consciousness, the wet earth her scarlet fetish
prehensile projects from the tonsil her hope-bombs

the names withdrawing to canvass, bombed
to tombstone, all-terrain scrambled appendage,
time-balls; in with the oils like a candy fetish
in a dead rat’s mouth on the pestilent back
highway, where exterminators investigate
how long the carcasses make circus bulges

like bags of microwave popcorn bulge
from radiation, little roadside bombs
machine moved and glass investigated
by the machete who wants your appendage
removed from hero view, pruned back
along the historic landscape, that fetish

made turgid by hairs that tingle, that fetish
how your sting makes me welt, bulge
like the curve bones showing in your back
your heart beats away the dark with bomb
shakes, sprouts my prayer box to appendages
and the doctor splints, squints to investigate

how the trauma victim invests in closed gates
hedges of sheep, pink and wire fenced fetish
precision, with wild swinging appendages
that dance at the end of broken flower bulges,
like fields of gazing sunflowers carefully bomb
cut and gathered with hands to give back.

Thus the gentle caressing bomb of highway accident
is like the fetish for a missing appendage,
a bulge in your shirt worth investigating.


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