the daughter

hand wrote:

 

its safe to say the fabric is on sale

descended hems of hunted grass

 

[he’s the gun shooting fucking coffee shop he’s not even good enough to be hell]

 

dies in a painting constellating

pronouns

grown lucky in a wide valley        is milk based

bowels

 

[he’s the dirty water excremental poison on earth industrial agricultural and living thing waste]

 

the shins of the felt forest are lucent                      (pianists pant in the rain

 

virginity

seeps in cushions

next door to the dulcet lutes

used to laugh

 

[if science is beauty he’s a promise]

 

tomatillo tastes

seeds    pulse, the corded snow

 

9.2.13 012

One thought on “the daughter

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