Sunday, September 29, 2013

John M. Bennett

filthy chowder

meat and sand the
wall’s lap protectant’s
dribbling in the falling hole
yr regurgitant chewed
,what stuns its  ik  ik  ik
the desert ,with rain ,fills
,choppy grey lake ˄˄˄˄˄˄˄
rabb its twitching on the
shores sodden books
tongues for markers and
,like syrup ,I sank into
my pants  ink  ink  ink
where yr facial claw
retracts the udder
clown inhales~.~~..~.~...~~.~
~.~..~.~...~silted air~..~.~...~~..~.~~..~

La circulation souterraine que alimentait
nuit et jour...
- Antonin Artaud


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