Monday, January 30, 2012

3 poems || John M. Bennett


bag of tongues ∩ bleeds S the
fridge’s air in ,~falls~ out across
the floor___∩ my spinning neck §
to the steaming≈ windo
w □~ walked my swallowed
,gulf it’s ,if dribbled ,,,shirt ,the
porchlight ● blackened ,wr
inkled where Ih ,efffluenza
churned ,wrote the contents
,like bees rotting ,of the plas
tic Ʊ bag .nor knife " nor
hung the sopping ,yet legible
,still ,▒ note ,like naked feet
,crawling from my ,hair ’’’
enshrouded ,mind ,the st
icky ,insistent was ,dust
or archive of the putrifact
,the lunge /


the flooded ,insular if thigh ,socks
tepid far ,envisioned still ,below
the chin your chest toward tilts
,was ,drugged and wove ,hair ,a
,snipping ,wave ,yes smothered like
,what hour regressed ,time nor tic
king of tongued ,tho gagging ,shoe
dripping the bed’s beneath’s .the
surface ,with shirts with arms
with trees entire an tires de
flated ,masks their heads gone
sunk ,shivered and shimmered
in the choking sun .a bowl
,thickened with mud ,of rice ,on
,above the yawn ,a rock ,where
the turbulent earth was sea an
I ,in my pocket ,was hand my
icy fist ,my mouth with grav
el full ,and a cloud ,gravid with
grit ,returns


soaked my broom cloud eat
mutter blank drone sigh
wrinkle where my lunch
consumes the pickled feet
o shoeless mind hot haw I
tightened up my dreamy swi
mming through la M al the
mirrored steam still awake my
constipation clock’s ignored
.the lethal bees inside your
statue tilts encrusted behind
the thorn garage hold out my
spit-up hand the palm a
plate where yawn begins

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