Al can run twice and then star bend
Film her teal id.
Ruder knack open,
gift Heimlich a fry.
Iris, shimmering, tram lost and chub:
the “him” Elle hurts. Growl, mustn’t a sign
shrug, in the ice urn and tell
the black end span
the rats do the seal.
(Were it, why do? Was do, why itch?
Stand, and were night
under. Hide them? Pass at
“for signed friend.”)
The flies and the row
did buy, I dander. The biding
hurts growing Loch and
months of swine can.
The Docked Rottweiler
The intimate never written for good reason is the dog
you kicked. Remember its docked tail? the red eyes and
chlorosis to the poison capillaries branching iris outwards,
remember the creature you maimed, the Rottweiler swallow,
the Jack Russell, and the magpie of exile?
Grotto’s slaver mouth terrain.
Gladness in the choice of anomie. Off he goes to
Ivory Coast, watch him set his treadmill on
a mound of the sand lot… The kicked dog of gladness cannot
tarantella on suburbs forehead, invokes incantations
by the forgotten Norwegian pagan priesthood, suffering.
Rottweiler bald of teeth, wag your stub tail darling rarefaction
your un-ushered exile. Vanity-on-a-leash, Korine’s
tarantella and subsequent rendition of the Singing in the Rain
sequence about the blue dumpster and around the lonely
parking lot tramples hot, effacing your exile tracks.
Jakob, you’ve even forgotten to turn up to school, where
they quote your Sapphic fragments of etiquette spewed
from the magic mirror whose secret mien is you as a
false Whitman, beard soaked by that fat slobbering tongue of yours;
the Rottweiler’s; the kid who puts his finger through the chicken wire;
the nonexistent vanity of the intimate, a hardly pornography.