Zombie

I'm an unhappy camper
full of camphor, and dis

tended bellies growing
larger ever day. As the

lodger who multiplied
and has since died,

but kept on moving.

Brain sandwich, extra
mayonnaise, salt and

pepper; diet soda. Fig-
hting the road, but then

walking it over.

Wrought metal coaster,
rusting; taught green socks,
andthe trusting elastic, calf

holding. I'm scared of the
history and holding on to it.

What laird, and whose self-right
eous fit fought over rain

dance, body-paint, tartan?
What movings have gone

from sincere to distain so
quickly? And whose culture

is lolloping sickly?

Holiday

This wanderlust; I'm
passing out. This wait
wait, wait and orange
spout of boiling water.
The treading harder
through it; getting pink
as both feet soles are
growing hotter.

The honest and penitent
man going faster, and faster
and faster, and faster. Does
he get there—

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, go away
And come no other day
Again

The line you Adam's
Apple makes, the little
Hairs

Stand up; have left a
Residue of smeared
Cake,

The smells of ruminants,
Those magical hooves
Clack

Together the jig of a
Harried dark flight from
Each roof.

Tony Blair's Britton

Such a mix of abilities
and temperaments as this
portends the lovely challenged vents,
chained open. Whatever meltdown
it ensues. All of Tony Blair's britton
accruing new disinterest in
the world's affairs. Turned in on
themselves as though all fault
had sublimated. (Or else un-
interest, and began ignoring it)

The tortilla of the populace turned
on itself. Two halves, one hiding
other approximately; but eaten anyway.

Market Forces

Even traditionalists have
abandoned the free market
for nationalization.

The key is growing of public
debt, or private wealth
sources. Which are both
the same choice. Us
fighting us, and stability
of market forces. So, the Dow
can grow 1,000 points
in the space of a day, the
gas can get cheaper (although
the oil's growing scarcer.)
: it doesn't matter.

Cursive

There is so little left
in hair, done up limp
made up plainly—and a
fey expression peeking
from behind flat bangs.
The plaintive refrain of
bombs dropped carrying
heart shapes meaning
something indistinguishable,
and the pleading goes on
but quietly, and only if one's
willing to listen. Move quicker
pitch unperturbed, but is
noticeable from the silence
of red letters in corner
spelt something terrible
and familiar both.

the Last Great Snowman

The last great snowman
was a mess of wet heaps,
white. And inside you
could feel the water. Mittens
seemed to just absorb the
stuff. Frigid fingers when it
hits them; just enough.
A wet grazing, snow-flakes
falling down. The being hit
over head with accidentally
too big snowball. Drip around
the neck and in the clavicle,
disappear inside of scarf—
colder.
Getting older, every day and
every night, until I'm the holder
of overlarge bomb. Doing the
wrong thing, feeling bad about
it.
The oxidizing from the touching
and the touching, and the touch-
ing. And then lunch of hot soup
and microwaved grilled cheese
sandwich.

Classic Hallmarks

You are the wiping
of a sweatband across
brow

embedded, with: you
figure it out. It's inter-
changeable. Something
bumpy.

The rest of bubble-
tube, glass brooches,
impersonated show;
"the Office"

in a commercial
—seems everyone's trying.

All the leftover lust from
before, all the dust
sticking to after touch
-ing.


You wore a primly fit
Christmas jumper—what
is this?

This iridescent skin-tight
blouse. We don't know
what you're doing—stop.


I will live inside this bag:
from deli, so it's clear and
plastic,
crinkles loudly
when I move around. I've
lied. It's really tiny and has
pesto clinging
to the sides.