zafusy

Bug whir subsiding
into ravaged sunfucked

pallor ghouled
by some winsome somnambulation:
petit mal coma
bungalows
aglint with
tricked grandeur.

Snap a pinion,
nerves flash,

apex cowboy ride on
Rider 31

“by the way, you were
the sun

scratched in the errata
close the tome
this chapter’s written
on smoke.

Mark Lamoureux

Smoke clumps in sluggish bunches,
beside me taxicabs creep,
cetacean.

Platinum smell of snow,
the peal of the alarm
clock, the sound of my own heart
aging.

Tyrants in the winter,
all the old games.
My thoughts fall,
husked.

She opened her skin
for the Colonel, the Colonel
who did not speak
a language.

Behind the hood
of the sun
is a Wendigoo &
he swallows us all
quick.

January chiaroscuro,
bouillon days, dial
random numbers
on the phone for
to say all these things
make me
think of you.

The plaster of these
walls, that’s not mine,
either, how

space abhors those
who must go without:
food, shelter, sex or
what have you.

Swallow the buds that swell black & moist &
the perfect insects therein
are your betrothed,

Generalissimo, I
arrange an army
of trinkets, which in these
blankets are
harder than diamonds.

Mark Lamoureux