__________________
as there was no box
in which to fit her head
the lame thing'd've sat there
all day. flung. by the parts
into her juices, the bog
dragging, her feet.
if a prophet cld. not
hold her nose
in the high errant air,
of stinky clothes
what cld. she be doing?
if this seizure were nothing
but nullity and death,
of what her hankering hands
would be made, if not
salt of her wounds,
& chests of her greaves?
a prophet sat by her arse,
in the sleeve of biblical
jack her jimmy self,
nackerd by disasters's favorite name.
holding up the fort is not her metier
nor playing ambitious games,
as her bum sits down once again
for to pleasure her rump,
Sister Maria-Buttocks measures
the fair where trouncing maids
've played, straying their crops
to say nothing of flocks
against the
Roman way of skimpy boons
and shoving docks.
_______________________________________
of english birds & part article her heart was skittish matter
roiling in the wave her hair
a stare down fatter
of rocking souls
their patter
a m a z e
trilingual ring
nose her
heart poops
puffs up the rent
of her bargain basement
lodgings
.
.
