Ognjen Smiljanic
Tortu Hartisti
neon lumps, hunched
panzergears arranged
to mold wing grease
trochillic point to rush and be conveyed,
perforated metal plates from my lilies.
beneath the sound of
pantytwist salmon, of pelagic square files
fearful that I may be velvet,
I have a sandbar flapping in some incoming
languagethe back of the last mule
is broken under the copies of birds,
at each gain he prodded
her with a broken stomach-piece,
to kill her slowly drawing deer,
large numbers sawing where I standHe regresses well on such occasions:
the listen-curd in exchange for my life
the thud of falling upon oneself
moved as the photo was being taken