A squashed
blackberry stuck
to the sole of my shoe
in Paradise you’ll starve up on
the roof.
Mobbing
birds will often
swerve away before they
strike: Mannikins, Mousebirds, blue-gray
Noddies.
Even
that little truth
is too much though so is
the fibbing. I’m still not sure how
it works.
❉
I once
have known a man
soft as death could not catch
my scent no telling where “Little
Hat” went.
❉
The lies
themselves began
to take me at my word.
Why don’t you eat him, the King says,
that way
maybe
you could work a
miracle. But who says palaces ever were neat and
clean, what
with all
my friends here: Eye
Winker, Tom Tinker, Nose
Smeller, Mouth Eater, Chin
Chopper.
Bones may
be dropped from great
heights to break them open
on the slopes of Mount Quarentyne.
Seeing,
thinking,
sobbing’s the best
life on earth—watch, he’ll knock
on my door after he gets off work
tonight.
❉
Not that
the world’s so lost
we’d better start packing
our bags. His “divine monstress” he
called me
from his
rotten English:
I savede him from beyting
and he hath me bette. A kissing
ther was.
Pretty
grimy—we’re done
with art—you never know
how much inside you is breaking
apart,
what it
must be like, why
some words always get their
way. He spends the night wherever
he lands.
