Monday, February 7, 2011

ten texts || John M. Bennett

John M. Bennett
After Ten Photos by Nicolas Carras


ate the scrubbrush hair the toggle
wind the course of mewling in the
ham rancid fork recession where
my clamping sank beneath the b
read a clock skull salad dri
fter down the stream ru
shing from my pants


the bottle nestled in my hat the
duck lunger off my suit the
haw muter flaking in your
soup dandruff vision rises
from your plate why that
was draining from your sleeve ?
acrid glass you kept your boils in


thundered in the saucepan dropped my
face in size the rain throat splayed
my finger in your nostril cooked my
numbers ow ow ,what your bar
king named the boil .stunned and
leaked your shitty flag I hacked
my tooth in


I chewed that rag canned in pee
your thumping hat remind me of the
stairs oh shoe and shoe I left be
hind a drinking mirror spllinteredd
in my ear .a spinning comb your
focus mouth the lid a circled knife
.the churning foreheads open.

my chains in that monthy colander my
gristle soaked the dusty lens
the cheese grunter doubled ,clocks
of hash nomination I swallowed
all the flies .the troubled sink the
grotto faucet burns .my bowl of
tongues falling off the floor


named the cat was hinges nod
ding at the door my numb
er tomb my dusty hair egg
cackling on the screen oh
sink compaction in my
backside should I wa
sh my butt ?


your sausage vent your grilled tomb’s
gnatty fog oh clacking street you
run forget the leaking window .squ
irted ham and shoulder or the dri
pping light where you wipe your gr
ass knocker ,bubbling rabbits ,chock
dull burning meats on top the fridge
) where my linty light congeals (


so I fried my hand for you the
pan my visage vacant comme
une dent .s‘killed an blinkered
,fotonaque ,luminescence sugared
like my feet regaled your hair
.chair et chair rester assis mes
fils cuits and I was soaked into the
wall - along the fluttered grease


the punch cortext the flavor of my
creamy holes I gaze the rain
slumber in my neck a foghorn
thinking of the river .shuttered and
open ,clocked and mice ,the rotting
radish on my steps the glassy room
smokes on top .my sock illumination
turns the rage outside my book


your baking dish your hat your
nodding hamster puppet ,chirpy
glassware streaming in the cupboards
count your lung your stone your
franc crumpled ticktock in that ran
cid truitte falling from the ceiling
light was soaking from the window
in was steaming like your loss of days

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