WHEN I COME FROM OUT AND THE LAMP LIKE THIS
left on
knows not or knot nose the bounds
it’s anybody’s birthday
the engine is scented like last time
nobody has a needle to spare
and we could do with a good needling
with what feels like isomelt in my smallest crevice
fatigued of eating at so much bolted hair
bolted like a burdock on the field fringe
i couldn’t do without a chug
without a snippet of nip time
a snippet of one time put on another
on another eating more roughage crude
even the dry kind
it goes on like this
like this we steady the palette prongs
the brass tinkers
a junksong
feeding chicken fat to the latest
bog strumpet
it’s not what misconduct can do
it’s what a sopping meat grinder might wager
for a turn on the tiltowhirl
guess my weight for a corndog
rid us of the empty jars
rid us of the spoiling sink swamp
newly spread into every possible holekeeper
i ring the dumbell around a finger
like a wad of gutter hair
coiling the various slimes with it
not pitching a good joke
another game of old meat
can’t put a finger on the yeast
in the air surely borne from a neighbor
or dear one
a yeast well known
i’m still in the death march
give me a lift
Patricia Hartland makes sounds, video/poems, and translations. you can listen to somesuch at triiish.bandcamp.com.