the wicked queen of morning
greets you with
clutching shore

little pebbles in the stream
rob red rubies
from dead fish bellies

on a rock
there are some feathers
a broken beak
crunched bones

your attention is cut
with the dead kiss
of a woodpecker

you are bound
to relive the death
of thousands of forests
bound to kiss
the stream’s mojo
laughter

listen—
the stream is still asleep
its floor is falling through
the weight of its slumber

nothing can contain it

Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).

Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.

All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.

"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!

She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.

I feel melt
           concentrated in the chest, legs, brain, it is most hinderous.
           For instance, upon entering small enough rooms, thinking
           too hard, or looking too closely at my skin, some sort of ladle
           is at once ****** down my throat and grates forgotten
           membranes in the dark. It works up a soup, it does, and all
           the while I totter. My, what a dance!, though I can't say I'm
           glad to have taken to the floor. In fact!, the step of liquids
           flushing every which way inside drives one quite to the edge!
           Bonkers! I'd rather It'd just quit it's game, this soup.              
           I'd rather it just
spill.

I, ripe
fruit,
a-wait dreams,
legends, storms~
In song, become
girl, with voice, hair,
lips, let me ex
press to you the welling,
welting of
the cardiovascular.
Precipice of a
smile, sultry swirl of
cloud before the
wet. Orange
skies cut to
red. Brok
en clocks because maybe without time they'll get here before I
wilt.

I've decided  to
swallow you w
h ole. That way
, I'll get the full
flavor without
having you lin
ger about amo
ng my  t e e th.

See,  I  haven 't
the palate for y
our earthy afte
r t   a s    t  e   s.