Sunday, September 30, 2007

hair I puts the hair between the boards

Shake off your bed
no farm for you

the start of the calming race

Tank forgetters
she leads the prairie of you

the key to the city
is in the solid beams

the workers have struck a vein

A funny old cripple
not much cock
if the old man throws you down

closer to the golden dog
up in a dream

twisted aim of Gogol’s eyes
where ovens see their target

just a Mormon with potential

no bullshit, Faye
tell me all about it

on the bitch
you can glue it all

gentle mitts
beer is in your head

He is standing in a mall
as she comes off the frame

she’s hoping to scar

sadder than tan
in a Bronco or Liberty

she’s leaving the mall
flashing deeper bras

the devil making hair
in the crotch-hungry dark