Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Dump Hybrids.

iron to the sun black absorb
surd to fail
out across the alley the tiny band
of teenage misfits

two with eyeglasses and knapsacks
and charlie a tomgirl grabs tony
towards the back
seen under action

of dumptruck in the foreground
what were they doing back there?

iron. sun. the day's spindle milks out a wheen
the chunky humm of nature and pathology
intermangled into flong


kooky gong
being bonged
the big bang strong arm om
and the murderous centaur
frozen in the wall painting
is it wallpaper?

hand hammered scales.

It's the depression, again,
a chemically smell on the fingertips

pink cubes simmer behind
the close bamboo
in cattle troughs.

darts in low pubs.
cajuns in sky-blue vinyl
fishing boat chairs.
circuit courts.
thugs. knock.
white tile wrapping first the ceiling
then the wall
then the floor

Here Sings Duchamp
still attached to the wall,
the boxers come out pouting.
iron gloves that lie in the sun.
dumptruck hybrids.