Message

meet me under the lampshade
in the flesh of your favourite book
set alarms inside my throat that sing
like the baritone of a kitchen sink
lay naked in these shaking hands
itch me like a two a.m. jealousy
in the spring of a Farmer’s Daughter’s hips
taste the heartbeat of her butterfly stitch
roll up in the skin of your favourite book
our lungs toast the wake of its eulogy
one hundred and sixty two thousand words
inside of us dying there, beautifully.

Every other night there's an independent cinema
closing down in someone’s lips.

Parents have been protesting how the
screenings glamorise violence.

There's the film about friendly families, scratching
the retinas of their young

in family friendly ways, or the gross out comedy in
a celebrity voiced bathtub

about the terrified boy drowning in it as part of his
Father’s severance package.


“Young and exposed retinas need a drowsy lid of
pollution to censor them from this filth”


a source said.

“New viewings are being set up along the plot lines
of your vulnerable child’s palm every other day”.



At home, the source beats his wife under the shade
of a rare erection. They climax together,

miming a sex fantasy where they have no children as
she dresses up like a paid mortgage.

Meanwhile, their child sneaks in through the back door,
cuts a hole in themself like the

bottom of a popcorn box, hoping something will reach in
and make them feel worthwhile.

I want the kind of adorable
baby brother teeth that
click and stutter
to the rhythm of
every crying Mother's
(blender/razor)
shoulder blades

not the kind that fall
like weather
when it's time to
smile
on school picture day

I want a young and colourful mouth
(hanging)
growing pretty in your garden
not the misbehaving kind,
windpipe crushed
at its
(innocent)
indignant stem.

I want the kind of pearly whites that sing-

'This is what you'll lose if you keep the cooking
wine where a kiss goodnight should be'


In a cracked frame that cuts like a -

'This is what it feels like to
watch you slowly kill yourself'.

Something about a wishbone
forever grinds against the
pocket watch of the heart.

A wishbone was once covered with
too much right to exist and undressed
under hungry knives and laughter.

Just before the snap, a wishbone begs
from the cellar of its eggshell, screeching
blindly in sleep of ambrosial sickness memory.

When I was undressed and pulled apart,
I didn’t keep my biggest half.

Just a rotting protein that
gave my stomach ghosts.

 Apr 21 Dean
Julia 

sometimes I forget
that I am ish
as one of the sun frowning commuters
I think in their language
then every once in a mile
a rozmowa comes and
as I forget the ish words equivalents
as i stumble upon the grammar
I realise I'm a universal foreigner
of too many heimats

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