24
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.
This
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.
Neuro-noir
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
scratched
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
