Chopin’s Fingers
I wrote this poem this morning while listening to Chopin chouse fingers against ivory-white keys culled from dead elephants and narwhale pike
to address the issue of paying homage and no little respect to the Polish skulls raked and smithereened through ash clips and bone by Stalinist cunts
with nothing better to do than reeve ass from jawbone like Black Angus to the slaughter pins and bolts jack-hammered into unsuspecting skull cups
knees buckling into sawdust and miller’s grease left after the slaughterers go home to fuck wives with too small teeth and gin stale breath and Oprah’s
tittering fresh in the mope of their thoughts and bridge hands trumping children’s washing and balanced meals fucking Stepford wives those forty-
five thousand and more ploughed into early graves with jackboots and silly grins and that fucking loud popping issuing from skulls kicked free of neck
and collar it seems only too fitting that I read this well-forgotten mistake in logic in a bar named the Advent and Large or whatever and wherever I am blithering like Oprah or Doctor Phil on meth and speed
Milk-teeth
Flail-points rasped to burr-edges on a match striker and a pull of yellow-sulfur air black with chamfer and junk-worry
Skin anointed with grain alcohol and puddle tarn, and the hex of her arm roughshod with brittle
Lost in that corner where thoughts are devils, and children’s scabbed over knees are revenants
Lost in that corner where thoughts are devils, and children’s scabbed over knees are revenants
Of dog’s tongues, milk teeth and whalebone, and church spires tracing blood and scrimshaw on the boughs of moth-nettled arms
Weaver Clothe
Before my friend’s father turned on the gas
He trenched the window seams with rags
He trenched the window seams with rags
Then skirled the tablecloth to the auld of his jaw
Palled in kerosene oil and jam
Palled in kerosene oil and jam
