Ahhhh, the mad cackling as I wrote this today. ha ha ha... its voice leaves a trail / its signature has a tail ha ha ha... the crazed complexity of Death dresses it backwards like clothing made of moths that once were ashes Such operatic silent film mad scientist type gesturing. there is a poet called The Poet and a poem he wrote called The Poem ha ha ha... the glow in the dark profoundness of: there is no word that no letter dismembers One of the many openings of my new poem The Rabbit Seven martywatt.brownpapertickets/ * teeth like shattered windows a tongue as white as curtains laughter dripping from every joke it was the 19th century for the 19th century in a row and dead women walked its veins there was a poet they called The Poet and a poem he wrote - called The Poem the fur of a ghost is snow but poetry is a shadow made of flies the fetid buzz of their rhymes, a pair of white gloves flys over a field its shadows fall like tombstone wings the sound is lunar like statues of moonlight crashing to earth. Death dresses it backwards in time like clothing made of moths that once were ashes, its long coat made of dirt, the white fur like marble made of snow, six feet deep each hat out of which it rises, its voice leaves a trail its signature has a tail Jesus Christ came back as a rose from the dead like a stem his spine hung down from his thorn orbited head, on a glass rail like a vase of electricity he sparked and fed; he echoed, reflected, and shadowed by the dozens; he no longer bled - so the beat of his heart was all that he said: boom boom boom boom the sound of a crematoreum that produces petals not ashes and his brain was no longer gray but red but the cross is made from the number eleven and nail by nail you can hear it coming one follows one and two follows two and there is no four after three only more threes, there is no word that no letter dismembers it says with its words all furry with numbers I am The Rabbit Seven
Posted on: Thu, 02 Oct 2014 07:14:11 +0000
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