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Pigs And Chickens – Oblique Table of Elements I

A fruity whistle
:: high heels on wet slabs
:::: populated with the very sound of fear suppressed (clattering knees beneath fanny pelmet – lager froth in minge)
A wet street at night
:: the moon will give you your finest line, your only line, the first word formed in the mouth of your son
Lonely foghorns mysteriously lifted from the East River fog and dropped in Jarnac Square
:: A mother’s hand slowly wipes through blood like it was the hair of her first born
:::: “mouth replaced – tears removed”
Condemned to bring children – hands as warm as milk, sleep deep and soft – into a withered world where alone death waits
:: A needle, a tattoo, a condom
::::A certificate, a ring, a frame

He lifts his balsa guitar from its unmarked grave in the suburbs. He cranks it hard and almost wipes out two decades. Here, your little portal. Here, your yellow paper and black, BLACK ink.

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