Tuesday, March 10, 2015

2 poems || Heath Brougher

Acet Plum:Basi Solut

a wordsmiths song she’d never
accommodate us vicus

a wooden lie                bleach blanched
in the branches

tiptopular vernacular ex
expectational expeccceptional

look into look I the future
lick right tunes and truths
besure to thank
the besure of it all
the bustin up of chifforobes
            an’ whatnot
Dowpt up
            on doughPP
champagne shamblings bubblings
arsenic chlorine dead
chrysanthemum chrystalanthemom Chernobyl
[notvery Chernoble atall]
no buddies there
all evaporatorically turnt to dust
ance and dust innnn
thi mutated air. nuclearencumbered nucularcumberred
atomiccucumbird air.

Tinct Rubibarbb

Living in the trees ees ees ease
is easy for some
mind the black turtle turning the moon you should—
all the water, tide and such, drafted, even creeked
is all just transparent vomit
from some forest god
                        ]maybe Pan himself who’s voice is so old that it can only be pronounced by the breeze and the rattle of twigs[

you should keep a peeled eye for the constant rending of the Vale

sun forest god          is one
lines are made to be drawn out and dragged across the world—
it's Humanit-
y's thing to do what it does so well
to the TEE of pointless death
arbitrary execution 
traded once again to satiate the silly Manmade trifles
of Manmade reality itself.

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