_Fear & Swans Itch_ [ 24 ] by John Lowther


                                                          Tools of the master 
                                                          I work on swan time
                                                          Labor of low back portal into 
                                                          Making rounds of
                                                          Hand. The acid bath, tannic like
all the little birds are scared               Scratch that 

                                                          Burn it. Pretense of concept
squirts delicate frosting of lotion around majorities of         oh really 

                                                          Try a whistle to get 
                                                          Attention, scratch that 
                                                          Nose flute, like what 
                                                          The flesh brothers blow. 
                                                          Someone says they
                                                          Are afraid of swans. Good.  
                                                          Stranded, cow'd & 
                                                          Cowering in fear, filled 
    with dread. Just beyond light's reach, alluring, swanly button, 
                                                          To push to push 
                                                          To push to push! 
 itch is mean                                      Unconfessable and ridiculous 
   yes but        do not                          Laugh at those who push buttons. 
the little bubba hides the GPS somewhere and the big Bubba thinks you have it. 
hardwired                                          Into the servo 
something wants to laugh                  Glitches instead. Scratch 
through the streaming.                       Fetished question frag
each a                                                Polyphony. Of one.
                                                          But riding into the fitful
mannered, all, of this 

                                                          Though it goops the lines together adequately
as they round space.                          Itch glances up
itch been glancing up now awhile.    Fat
chance of rain                                    But baby swan drags fogs 
in the lattertaste do                             Itch but don't scratch me. Been down so long 
   it looks like swans to me 
who serves the servo.

Through roof into bedroom through door through hall through kitchen wall into kitchen through floor through room through door through hall through wall through wall through wall through floor into living area into bedroom into hall through wall through room through door through hall through wall into screaming children through wall into ellipsis...

                                                           Swans are my 
  object ball and smoke all knocked. 
pity the snake in the advert.                Fear the swans
                                                           In the dark 
 where the sun doesn't shit                  Scratch that 
shine                                                   Scratch that too 
till it bleeds                                         & itch me a rivet an eye will blink
& no sun comes to rescue itch in this place,
& swans are torn against the jagged dark,
& no light beats upon buttons             & itch says
tactics are failing                                 Strategies welcome
next to a fluted cup of spare change.
no word, day after day.
full of trigger itch                                I thought that because 
.... upon the power of their anger or fear or in some instances, hatred. ...

this poem is not over                           But was found like this
begetting scratch                                 Bloody feathers.
the act in actuality
if you speak swan.
                                                                         (The button

                                      (You push it                                    (Scratch that

                                                            (If you prefer 

broken beyond repair.

    We didn't even try                            Being the saddest new thing
   said. old as well.
now resaid.                                          What little happinesses
  externalization of loss                        Nothing in it held the color out
 noise as swans                                    Little bubba looks under
the blanket at the net.                           Chain links between 
        & the swans, bloodied against it, lined up too, in chains.
                                                            Incomplete nonlocal realism of a temporal truce and ceasing of hopes in favor of the actual days but feeling nonetheless the way a tear swans down the cheek laying waste to tiny soldiers in the wall somehow and there is ash on the floor and time has changed and each step running down flights of stairs and pushing buttons on the way to be an itch crashes through the wall of breath which fills all the space like a foam and we're coerced not to notice cynic with void 

likewise the                                         Performance of take this seriously please
   but the bubba                                   Mid-sized, exchangable, unimportant
                                                           Says no
                                                           There is great disorder under heaven
                                                           The situation is excellent

                                                           Swan as the destructive achiever
        veridical unhinger. Tired            Now 
too                                                      For the finale and all its flakes of skin
                                                           Each a brain cell
& stayed at the party late.                   Turn in the platelets where there like air is 
   the gist of the dialogue.                   Everything is keeping up on
period.                                                Sound from the interrogation room
  sneaking off the toilet                       What it reads as a white line.
                                                           Stranded in body, like
                                                           A swan on rollerblades
                                                          Wants to avoid the labor if at all possible
                                                           & whatever questions about the meat
                                                           & whatever aspic it floats in
                                                           Pace foam earlier. Punctuate

           fevered                                     Itch, this, is
your swan          now                          On scratch, go
balm the itch.
                                                            A swan in sheep persona.
pushing buttons up the hill                  Both ways.
buttoning the final note 
to a pillow the size of a military base designed 
something like an                                 Imaginary swiss cheese 
but with many radiating buttons 
bearing the                                           Swan 
coat of arms and somebody wrote 'push' next to one of them in cream 
and from here you can see where the broadcast ends. 
                                                             But the note just drags on in the hole of 
festered overfuzz                                  The other bubba denounces complicit-ly 
but mostly                                             It just drags and drags and drags out the ending dragging off the posture of dragging through the gouging where some one skin become leather is yielding like dry rot but underneath fleshy pale pockets then 
ooze                                                      Blood like lyrics on a karaoke machine 
and they're dragging buttons to the cliff edge like an animated tragedy without sales pitch in a culture that values such things
                                                              Can you imagine
                                                              It is a burning sensation that does not 
they're out there                                     Stop sign well with others.
hiding behind pillows
    waiting to snipe

shell shock push shock swan shock push tock push button to push through walls push button swan in a shell shock push push button push scratch scratch button scratch scratch 
                                                              The last damned swan song seen 
on the corner                                          By Dekalb Industrial and die Große Bleiche
                                                              Bloody paper taken off the flesh 
embrace the dirt 
and never moisturize again                    Taped by the medics
 for dumped in a ditch doused with lemon, reads;

                                              Dear Itch, 
                                 I've scratched you far (from) too much, 
                                                                  Love Swans

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