All I want is a lot of babies and a lot of money; you made me so pay it
8 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
poetry
The fuckwad has her caged rat-style. He sends babies chute face,
chute face. She chews face, face plowed, baby after baby.
He box checks, he checks box, he slots baby, he plows.
Then cokes. He offers to coke her. She nuzzles
a baby, opens her face.
When something is rooted in you, it will be difficult to root it out; you are a fungal-faced pig, your own nose is a blight:
5 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
poetry
The farmer sends you and your children into the woods to puke
up his property. He says, you're wolf meat, now. You're dead
to meat. Hoof it pinkling mama, if you like, but beyond
that forest lies the forest, and beyond that, a tight shut eye
nothings you flat.
The next time you survey your land, your land will accommodate your skull
2 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
poetry
Take note and heed. My drab elastic shackle worried the bone
to dart. Poison tipped present day cervix fasting, preparatory.
Ugly Park looms, and I file its gates. Specific access: trees
denied, fur denied, zing and whoosh denied, all water denied.
Dark denied, particle-free oxygens denied, nutrients denied.
Girls, boys, tom-toms, flowers, spoons, ink, porcelain, fruit,
tone, flint, exploration, and tonic fetal compass denied.
