Tuesday, April 16, 2013


Adjunct 4.5: Corpse Tipping

Here comes nobody, faces imploded with bone spurs and smoked glass
Festooned with Sestinas and obsolete ephemera
My name is Seeds Scattered Cross the Floor, my name is Nobody Important
Clocks groan in Easter hay with my fingernails
The house next door still empty, I'll post it to a museum, mausoleum,
Grip the paper doctor
Enough x-rays to stop a school bus full of robots programmed for folly
Flip the nurse's hair
Enough blood to thrill a bathtub
With a hib-jib-jib, I jam sparrows into my pocket
A flib-flib-jib full of parasites, pair o' pliers in my forehead

Hope he dies before me
I'll run my wheelchair into the funeral home and tip a corpse
Topplegang a corpse in bad faith
One of my daughters should fish me out
Corpse tipping season at last, so...
Who's laughing now?
Deal the fucking cards already
My punctuation is leaking
Who owns this stuff can find me at the end of a screaming tunnel
Find a screaming tunnel, I'll be cuddling with thunderstorms trumping the tundra
or spit would appear
as tongues watch wires crawl round the pale floor.

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