09 August 2007

Some Unfinished Poetry

It seems I've found,
although abound that,

Illustrative means compound

the steepled pinching of your brass shorn rooves.

My straining serenade
echoing around
to no acclaim

and gentle brew
in whistling kettles.

_

The sub-response
of rusted pots
is tentative, and so ersatz.

To live well then,
and live within

_

Every time I see a head
I want to kill you freshly

Facial hair, a shirt, a pair
or rounded shapes, you rush me,

I'm getting by, but brusquely

and all my movements are to date
good typographical design

metered by a strange embrace
earnest still, but cutting.