Elizabeth Treadwell – Handgun

Elizabeth Treadwell



crematorium of the slightest damn
over there pink stucco menace which
avoided stinks through pale evenings
mixing with handsome deadbeat passwords
similar to your medicine rather than accept
symbolic rapids is it possible the past
worlds of rushing scenic stumbled there
were plants trees flowers a lucid church
once where you met with her and him they
mending your parallel pantaloon or brother
lost to addressed structure, sung into the hard
unholy, shadow-break of continent populated
by similar or similar the pan image of a kind
wastes cathedrals everywhere, ma femme,
ma femme, clinching rulehook namesake
fuel or to pass through emptied mines herald
astride full of quickened bile steely games and rotten
books buried at the outlet trumps
a little doom, as big as shaken-knotted
threads brought back in, the source of you still
unknown and you are dead once more
clambered knowing such home town
messenger or counterscript, naturally corridors
around the fields countries that it was the little trip
to go better leaned the next time put her on the lovely
girl who fed the poultry pockets working but they
kept on walking tight and even curtsied
and then and then rang out

return to SHAMPOO 6