~=: Beetle in a Basket :=~

A blowtorch, some pliers, some skin, and a scream,
C sharp pitch, the voice chipped flint,
smells of dry piss and fear of a cat; scraped off a shoe
a click prick’s will to politik, I think,

aNd…

so spoke Zarathustra — to sign a tear in the lake –
to be remembered by a cured black-foot’s mind.

A melting totem carved in soap
and precisely positioned, gravity-wise,
relative to a legless one, who leaned and said,
“Wave, I can’t die,”

today anyway.

Then died anyway.

~~~~~…..

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 31st, 2008 at 5:27 pm and is filed under My Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.