WHEN I COME FROM OUT AND THE LAMP LIKE THIS

left on
knows not or knot nose the bounds

it’s anybody’s birthday

the engine is scented like last time
nobody has a needle to spare
and we could do with a good needling

with what feels like isomelt in my smallest crevice
fatigued of eating at so much bolted hair
bolted like a burdock on the field fringe
i couldn’t do without a chug

without a snippet of nip time
a snippet of one time put on another
on another eating more roughage crude
even the dry kind

it goes on like this

like this we steady the palette prongs
the brass tinkers
a junksong
feeding chicken fat to the latest
bog strumpet

it’s not what misconduct can do

it’s what a sopping meat grinder might wager
for a turn on the tiltowhirl
guess my weight for a corndog

rid us of the empty jars
rid us of the spoiling sink swamp

newly spread into every possible holekeeper

i ring the dumbell around a finger
like a wad of gutter hair
coiling the various slimes with it
not pitching a good joke
another game of old meat
can’t put a finger on the yeast
in the air surely borne from a neighbor
or dear one
a yeast well known

i’m still in the death march
give me a lift

 

 

 

 

Patricia Hartland makes sounds, video/poems, and translations. you can listen to somesuch at triiish.bandcamp.com.