Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Twenty-nine
Summer 2012
All Your Pretty Flowers
Logan Hancock

Too much music dancing in sizzling lobes and too many filthy

summer clothes with mud left on them and your mother at the closeline,

shaking out in the sleep next to empty brass

and sex on the couch that the dog chewed up,

spitting chunks of foam out onto the linoleum

that we screwed on too,

like rabid idiots,

bleeding ourselves out onto the floor and wrapping up our fingers

and legs and you saying words into wetness

and your illiterate father with oil on his hands and grease in his hair,

rusted nails too; lying all over this place

that smells like dog hair and honeysuckle in May,

with cows and rows of corn out across the road and the sun never going all the way down

because we never stop watching it.

About Logan Hancock

Previous Poem | Next Poem