crossroad shit-hound

bound to concupiscent literalness

boundary-barker, holing up in a shift-shop

gears, open for years

selling antique British motorcycle parts

on the highway abides the devil,

on a freeway, on a bench

running motors to exhaustion

fumes blackening throats to purple and

wringing voices like dish cloths

like loamy Iruma soil, grow rice or tea there

the basil has been dead for months but still

it stands disconsolate and heavy under

new browning skin

as erect as the Eiffel Tower

looking down the pin hole

of the Arc de Triomphe

to thread is the miracle of finding the exact

spot of the thrash. crashing old intellectual

bones, inside was a little person of bone

fragments, watermelon, orange juice, and mashed

yam

acres of le bouche de affinoi

the dairy wept over the suicide

what a paste

martyrdom cannot be

dinner news, would sicken our guests, and they have

just arrived from Tasmania

their voluptuous hillside dairies know nothing of

the Parisian antipodes now calcifying and growing

blue within upset readers

continuing to brew yoghurt

filling the pumice holes

in all those books with burgundy

did fuck-all, ruined

our dry spell

drunk with love for winter

carrying picnic fish for our dog,

he licks his chops for the lawn.