Bob, it seems like you go quiet for a spell then reappear with some
wonderful integrated change. this one's lovely.
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
Anus
Fodder of dead hours
indifferently humid
between my legs.
The dumb penumbra moans
in the inky shade of my fingerprints
unravelling the buttocks of the corpse
in the warp of dusk.
The curve of a voice resonates
in the winter light of my ashes: bulbs and bones
under the stupor of the frozen sundial.
What immovable thing ignites
the petal in a discharge of silence?
A blood-stained potbelly
is my laser leaf of solitude.
To abruptly smell the anus
of the tremulous sun,
as if by
instinct:
ear of dawn, verbal glance, kiss of zero,
star scar, paten patina, dust fuse, veins of twilight,
nocturnal entrails, rabid aurora of pretexts,
wrinkled adjectives, drizzle of fulgor in the corroded night.
--Bob BrueckL
