the Curvature of Memory

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Oxen of the Sun 392

The tongue wants its poetry of tears
Someone raw and broken
wishing for eyes to
Study the mechanics of nakedness
To keep the beast of language at bay
And walk away with what remains of
The butchered day.

The design of the ordinary
Believes itself to be the morning
The oceansea
A fecking, wishing chicken choking
On its own tripe,
A fish of timber without the time
To clear the mess that night has made of it
To burst its teeth and kidnap
Drifting children from their familiar slaughter
To make its pockets empty at auctions of the useless
Trading its salty meadows for boats
To carry us all over.