The man w the moth in his mouth

The colt-leggèd girls, never see the dawn

The heifers in curls See always the dawn, Bolt-on Spray-on Turnbuckled their pearls

The pretty brown-haired blue-eyed debutante in the walker: You could put it down to a skiing accident But it’s August … More

We watch palsied  pickpocket partridges  pluck feathers from plenty war bonnets

Birds-o-paradise from brownfields stagger on broken heels, wear hats that hang like crimes confessed, like  sodden cigarettes, like tin-snipped ailerons, … More

The man w the moth at his throat

The woman in the Jim Dandy Bar, w her bloodstain of an eruption, of a fascinator, crisis, of a hat; … More

Them ladies w smiles peeled personal-trainer tight, kerosene tits set to ignite,  their husbands  a-strafe their bedroom  superfund site

but the anus still between us, and also with us, father; the rectum pre-speculum the rosebud as yet un-rodded

Them high-heeled little girls, sure, sure, their hope-chest hymens  come high-five unhinged.

Watching all the young Turks playing grownup in grownup clothes w grown up cigars & hats

All them well-heeled hornets w hummingbird legs and their stillborn eggs