Friday, November 20, 2009


The manicurist maintains the proper nose temperature by agitating the dead.

The eggs resemble your porter who labors in the dossier of his poems.

Serpents vein their way into the heart.

A musical soul burns in my love for the Museum of Death.

Campion (1567-1620) and Cervantes (1958-1970) are both easy companions, one born meat, the other
a man's shot.

The royal pony is the myth of the return.

Fish seducer close your mouth office.


A 'draft.' I have no recollection of writing this poem, but discovered it one afternoon as I stumbled about on behalf of another purpose entirely. Hence, the title.

Labels: ,