Saturday, April 27, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 27"


a wedge of the suns landing gear
is lodged between my rotting teeth
the toothpick rescues bits of wreath
charred fat and torn masculature

flossing day and night does not help
the gum burying the bone bleeds
but the whole body has to feed
on prime estate and chinese kelp

mouth striated with lost remains
i orate with a nasty kink
to the blind glass above the sink
breath smelling of dead people’s brains

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