Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
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gomorrah, gomorrah, gomorrah, gomorrah Kyle McCord zeak will not read me to sleep. books all rot, all rot he reads from another book, opening night like beds of topsoil. how his mind so lunges, repulses i do not know. so swift, so argyle. but these are wicked days we inhabit. we raise our hands to the heavens proclaiming, "axle, axle!" but nothing muscles the air. open air festers in the archives. observe the neighbor's surly ways. flatulent, ruddy in appearance, the Lord says, "satchel, satchel!!" then scratches his nose with the bill of a passing bird. the Lord says, "that's the ticket!" so i tuck the sky inside itself; He cleans his teeth of stars. the Lord's wrath is as a wooden arm and we are doormats before the flame; see the earth now expurgated with an unearthly whump. the neighbors like an iron lung. |
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About Kyle McCord |